No Higher Praise
by Triskelion
Summary: James Potter comes back to life; dark secrets are revealed; angst for everybody; heavy doses of Voldemort, Snape, Black, Lupin, Malfoys, Weasleys, Pettigrew, and Fudge. Harry Potter’s fifth year – now blatantly, defiantly AU. No OotP spoilers.
1. October 31st, 1981

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction posted for the enjoyment of anyone who enjoys non-profit works of fan-fiction. Please don't sue. Every character in this story belongs to J. K. Rowlings – I don't own them, and I don't even own the situations they find themselves in. I can't even claim complete credit for the plot and ideas – it's all been done before, folks.

A/N: First off, this is a bit different from my other stories (if you've read them, which you probably haven't.) My Neville stories try to stick very close to the books – this one, obviously, is more than a little improbable. I wrote it because I wanted to, and I hope you'll enjoy it. Secondly, I know some of the ideas in here are … er … kinda … well … baseless. But, hey, it was fun to write – and really, if one reads the books carefully enough, it's possible to find support for *any* wacky idea. Besides, you don't have to keep reading it if you don't want to. And lastly, please review if you've got questions, comments, criticisms, or flames. *Any* feed-back is welcome.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

A tale covering the summer after Harry's fourth year, among other things … with a heavy emphasis on James Potter.

CHAPTER ONE

__

White fog obscured his senses... big, blurred shapes were moving around him... then came a new voice, a man's voice, shouting, panicking --

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off --"

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room -- a door bursting open – a cackle of high- pitched laughter –

-- Harry's memories, in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

* * *

__

"And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-backed and proud, the way your father died. . . ."

-- Tom Riddle, in_ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

The silence was nerve-wracking. 

As James Potter paced from shuttered window to barred door and back again, his footsteps seemed unnaturally loud, echoing above the ticking clock. If he stopped walking and strained his ears, he would be able to hear Lily humming a lullaby as she washed dishes in the kitchen … but he did not stop. The turmoil in his mind cried out for matching chaos, noise, and bustle all around him, but instead, the little house lay in dead silence, waiting.

No, _not_ waiting. He couldn't think like that – it wasn't fair to Lily. If he continued stretching himself, straining his nerves by this constant fear, her quiet endurance and peace would start to wear thin … and then they would both go mad with worry. He had to think about more cheerful things, happier things … such as how terrified poor Peter must be, left with this terrible burden and the knowledge that the Death Eaters would torture it out of him if they caught him. Happier things, like Sirius, setting himself up as a decoy, terribly liable to be caught and tortured even though he *wasn't* the Secret Keeper. Happier things, like Remus, and Sirius's fear that Remus was the spy … 

Happier things. Like why HE was after Harry in the first place.

No, no, mustn't go there. It would be very foolish to keep thinking about that, about those horrid scarlet eyes and those long white fingers that kept twirling the wand, twirling it hypnotically while the cold voice went on and on, offering him power and glory and wealth and anything he wanted, anything at all, if only he would give up Lily and let Harry die, if only he would realize the error of his ways, abandon the old fool Dumbledore and join … 

James shook himself out of his half-trance and turned quickly away from the closed door. Several brisk steps took him back into the kitchen, and some of his worries washed away in the warm firelight. Lily half-turned from the dishpan to smile at him, suds dripping from her hands, and he uncurled his fingers from his wand. It was silly to be so paranoid – they were safe unless Peter told, and Peter would never tell. Sure, he was desperately, utterly, frantically determined to keep his family safe at all costs, but he was still being foolish and cowardly – not like a proper Gryffindor at all – 

__

But, whispered a nasty voice in the back of his head, _you're not a proper Gryffindor after all, are you?_

__

Shut up, he told it, faintly amused. _I'm not insecure enough to be bullied into depression by my subconscious. _

James dropped down onto his knees beside Harry's play-area. Harry was sitting and solemnly plucking fuzz off of the blanket beneath him, completely oblivious to James's presence as he tried to stuff his rattle full of blue lint. James leaned over him silently, waiting until he was inches away from Harry's left ear before speaking. 

"Boo!"

Rattle and lint went flying as Harry shrieked with laughter under a sudden onslaught of tickles. Lily turned around, her long hair catching the firelight, and smiled tolerantly.

"You do realize that now I'll never get him calmed down enough for bed, don't you?"

"Awww, Harry's a big boy now," James answered, halting the tickle attack. "He doesn't need to go to bed before midnight, at least!" Harry's helpless giggles turned into equally helpless hiccups; he beamed happily at James with his gap-toothed grin. 

"Give him a bottle, James, that should take care of the hic … cups …" Lily trailed off as James calmly returned his wand to his pocket and picked up the now-cured toddler. She shook her head and laughed. "I'll have you know my Muggle remedy would have worked just fine too, James Potter."

"Of course it would have," James assured her, dropping onto Harry's blanket and lifting his son onto his chest. Harry made an eager snatch for James's glasses. "Hey! Daddy can't see without his glasses, Pronglet …" 

"Daddy is going to come dry the dishes."

"Daddy could dry the dishes from here with one flick of his wand … and Mummy could too, if she wasn't so eager to dump the dishpan over Daddy's head."

"Daddy is going to get the dishpan dumped over his head whether he comes or not if he keeps talking like that."

"Mauder," Harry declaimed proudly, struggling to place the glasses on his own nose. James reached up in time to keep him from poking one of his eyes out. 

"That's right, Harry, Marauder. You're the first of the new generation of Marauders, all set to carry on our proud traditions … no, Harry, the glasses go *this* way, over your ears, not in your mouth…"

"Ick!" Harry stated firmly, pulling the glasses back off. 

"Well, of course you can't see, Pronglet – these are Daddy's glasses. But it's quite all right, because you're sure to need your own pair in a few years. And then you can get glasses with little snitches on them. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Harry? Ow!"

James recaptured his glasses and felt the tip of his nose gingerly. Lily chuckled, banishing a pile of silverware to its drawer. "You ought to be glad he didn't get you in the eye, James, with the way he was waving those things around."

"Mummy's just jealous," James informed Harry in a stage whisper. Harry blinked down at his father's face, evidently considering another grab at the glasses. "Mummy just wishes *she* could have a pair of utterly marvelous glasses that can be used to start fires with when there's sunlight and no wands. No, Harry … these are Daddy's glasses."

"Mauder?"

"I'm sorry, Harry. Not even for a display of your speaking prowess will I let you have my glasses again. I value my nose too much. Mummy would never want to kiss me again if you disfigured it, you ruthless little fellow." 

Momentary silence descended on the room as Harry, frowning with concentration, began attempting to detach James's collar from his shirt. James lay still, his heart constricting painfully as he watched his son's small face. 

__

How could you ever be a threat to him, Harry? And how could he ever stand to order you killed? How could he? 

I suppose it's no big deal to him. His followers have tortured and killed children as young as you before … but his own flesh and blood – no, that wouldn't matter to him. He killed his own father, didn't he? But we're nothing like him, Harry, whatever blood runs in our veins. We are good and he is evil and he wants you dead, but I swear I'll protect you, Harry, he'll have to kill me to get at you and he said he wouldn't do that … but he would, of course. 

Life's so uncomplicated for you, isn't it, Harry? It should be. That's what we're here for, as Aurors or as parents … to protect the innocent and let children grow up without fear. And I'll do it, Harry, even if *I* have to kill *him*. I'll protect you, I will, I will…

"Pafooh!" Harry yelled, as something went off with a whistle in the next room. Lily started and dropped the mop clattering on the floor. James sat up quickly, clutching Harry in his arms. 

Lily laughed nervously. "Probably another stray cat. Those stupid proximity wards sound all the time …"

"Pafooh?" Harry queried hopefully, grabbing a fistful of James's sleeve. 

"No, Harry," James said automatically, slowly getting to his feet. "Padfoot can't come; Padfoot is very busy…"

__

It's a cat, nothing but a cat, or another Muggle, that's what it is, there's nothing to worry about, James, really there isn't –

__

"Then I will hunt down your son myself and kill him – and you, you will wish you had never defied me, insolent boy. You will wish you had never seen that Mudblood girl … you will wish you had never been born …"

Nononononono, don't remember that, don't think about that, it's not him, it's not, he can't be here he can't come here Peter's the Secret Keeper and nobody knows we're safe safe safe and there's nothing to be afraid of nothing nothing nothing

"James!" Lily's voice shot up in sudden fear as an alarm chimed through the house. Three throbs, a strident whistle, a deep clang – silence – the wards were down, the house was visible, what – 

__

No.

His wand was in his hand suddenly and he spun toward the door, heart suddenly working overtime. He could not hear the clock ticking over the throbbing in his ears, and the curtains were pulsating in a breeze that shouldn't be able to get in.

__

Noooooo, please no, not him, please, let it all be a mistake, let the charms have failed naturally, let it be a cat –

"I will allow *nothing* to stand between me and what I want, James. Not you, not your less-than-halfblood son. Give him to me, and I will give him a quick death."

No!

And the wards over the front door exploded in harsh finality. 

His voice shot up in panic as he hastily disentangled a suddenly-quiet Harry from his shirt. "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off –"

He thrust Harry into her arms and, after one intent, desperate stare into his eyes, she spun and rushed from the room. Out in the hallway, the front door burst open. With Quidditch-honed speed, James flung himself forward through the kitchen door, wrenching it shut behind him with one hand while he pointed his wand forward with the other.

__

Oh, the cynical side of his brain scoffed_, like a shut wooden door will delay Voldemort for more than .061 milliseconds. You're very funny, James. _

I know - that's what Sirius always tells me, he answered automatically, sliding his feet apart and settling into dueling posture. 

Hurry, Lily. Get away.

The tall, thin silhouette that haunted his dreams stepped in over the shattered fragments of England's sturdiest front door. 

"Expelliarmus!" James shouted, almost before he could see the wand in the other's long, thin hand.

He knew, of course, that it wouldn't do the slightest good, so he instantly followed it up with a "Stupefy," equally useless.

Then the wand wrenched itself out of his hand, tearing skin off of his palm, and the force of the spell knocked him backward into the door. He automatically rolled out of the way, and heard the kitchen door splinter as a spell bounced off of it. 

He crouched beside a table, one hand straying to the spare wand hidden in his sock – and looked up, as Voldemort

__

Tom Riddle

moved leisurely toward him, tossing James's snapped wand to the floor. 

"James," the thin, amused voice began. "Have you changed your mind yet? Put any of that vaunted Head Boy intelligence to use?"

__

What spell? What spell can I use? Should I try to kill him? Could I even use an Unforgivable? What spell? Stall – got to stall – surely Lily's out of the house by now – 

He forced himself to his feet, sliding the spare wand, now sticky with blood from his scraped hand, into his sleeve. "Actually, I'm afraid I used up all of that intelligence on the NEWTs. Not enough to go around for the rest of my life, you know. Sorry."

"You certainly were not using your brain when you married that mudblood."

"Don't call Lily that," he snapped automatically.

__

Not smart, James. Not smart. 

He made himself look at the horrid scarlet eyes, the dead white face, the bloodless lips twisting in scornful amusement. "Such a temper, James. Do you really think you're in any position to criticize my vocabulary?"

__

Wonder what he did to make 'em go red like that … 

"Well, actually, I'm working under the hypothesis that I'd better criticize your vocabulary as much as I can while I'm still able to, don't you know. It certainly needs it."

Voldemort's thin nostrils flared angrily. "Cheap back-talk will get you nowhere, boy. Will you give up the child and join the winning side, or must I take drastic measures?"

__

Petrificus Totalus, maybe? It's such a cheap little spell – even first years can do it. Maybe he hasn't protected himself against it. If I can get his wand away, Lily may be able to get to Hogwarts … 

Oh, God, I hope Sirius and Peter are all right.

Sweat was trickling down his face, and his pulse was beating in hectic fury. "Er … could you give me some more time to think about that?"

He did not get the response he had expected. Instead of a cold refusal, Voldemort gave vent to a high-pitched laugh. His lips curved up into a macabre grin, and he began to twirl his wand between his thin fingers. "Oh, yes, James, I'm going to give you more time. I'm going to give you more time than you could possibly even _want_ to think about my offer, and the way you have turned it down, and what your response had better be the next time I ask you this question. In fact, you're going to be heartily sick of planning every syllable of that answer before I give you the chance to speak it."

__

What?

"Oh … that's … nice. Er, care to elaborate?"

The smile broadened. "You're stalling. How very funny, James."

__

Looks like now I know where the cynical side of my brain came from … ooh, bad thought. 

"You think your precious mudblood Lily is going to get the child away while you distract me. How … heroic. And idiotic. A plan worthy of a _Gryffindor_," he spat, suddenly angry.

James faked a flinch, then pulled himself straight again. If the Dark Lord underestimated him and Lily, they might have a chance after all. But his heart was sinking rapidly, an icy hand clutching at his stomach. Lily _had_ to be gone by now.

"Do you think I didn't plan for the contingency that one or both of you would try to get the child to safety? Have you really that low an opinion of my intelligence? Even as we speak, you darling wife is scuttling frantically from one end of the house to the other, looking for a way out. She isn't going to find one. Did you know how very easy it is to turn wards mean to keep people out into wards that hold people in?"

__

Lily … Harry … 

His voice sounded raspy in his own ears. "No … I didn't know that…"

__

But he could be bluffing! Don't give in now!

Voldemort's thin face pulled into a grimace of disgust. "That Salazar Slytherin's bloodline has come to _this_ –"

"Petrificus Totalus!" James spared less than a second to wonder how he had ever gotten the wand out of his sleeve and pointed so very quickly. The Dark Lord's limbs quivered and stiffened; his eyes widened in sudden fury. James covered the distance between them in one leap, closing his hand around Voldemort's wand. He wrenched it away from the stiff hand. 

Then white light swallowed the world and lightning was shooting up his arm from the wand, dancing around him in ethereal pain. His fingers opened against his will, letting the simple stick tumble to the floor, and he staggered backward, struggling to bring his own wand up for another spell.

__

Idiot. You should have known he would cast protection spells on his wand. 

Voldemort was moving again before James even pronounced the second syllable of his spell. One of the dark wizard's hands shot up, and the Auror-strength stunning spell _bounced off_ and flew back toward James.

__

That's not even possible!

The time it took him to duck was enough for Voldemort to snatch his wand back up. 

"Relashio!"

"Expelliarmus!"

There was hardly any contest as to which spell was stronger. James was too shaky to dodge effectively, and his second wand ripped out of his hand. His body smashed against the wall with considerable force, and he slid down to the floor, bells clamoring wildly in the back of his head. 

"Crucio!"

A surge of strength from some hidden reservoir enabled him to roll aside; the curse punched a smoking hole in the wall behind him. But Voldemort's arm could move more quickly than James could dodge.

"_Crucio!_"

And then there was pain, like serrated knives ripping through his muscles, molten iron consuming his bones, pain that twisted his mind and wrenched at his voice.

__

Don't scream, don't give him the satisfaction. Lily, and Harry, think of them and don't give in don't mustn't oh God make it stop …

When it finally stopped, he was pretty sure he hadn't screamed – he had certainly bitten through his lower lip, his teeth were clenched so tightly he was unsure he could ever open his mouth again, and his jaw ached in a way that had nothing to do with the jerks of pain still shuddering through his body. And he was still on his knees, as he had been before the curse hit him, kneeling beside the hall table with one hand wound around its nearest leg. But the blood trickling down from where his fingernails were imbedded in his skin was new.

Voldemort approached with measured steps, and James looked up, red and black mists boiling behind his eyes. "Very clever, James," he said, and his hissing voice seemed to come from a great distance, echoing and flickering like a strobe light. 

__

Got to get up. Got to get up.

"Or perhaps not. An ingenious plan, my dear boy, but rather rash, don't you think? Lord Voldemort does not take kindly to being … tested."

The mist was clearing slowly, and James could see that Voldemort's eyes were glittering with malice. He wanted to answer that, to delay the inevitable death

__

Get away, Lily!

but he couldn't get his voice to work. Instead, he began forcing himself to his feet, every fiber in him screaming in frenzied protest.

Voldemort moved back slightly, raising his wand. "You are as troublesome as your mother was, _Potter_. I think I'm going to enjoy this."

Finally on his feet, James faced Voldemort, and spoke through the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. "You must really lead a poor life, having to get your kicks out of things like this. I almost feel sorry for you."

__

And it's true, you bloody bastard. Now, let's have a long metaphysical discussion on worldviews and true value while Lily gets Harry away. 

Voldemort's face went blank for a moment, then he answered softly, "You'll be too busy feeling sorry for yourself soon, James. Petrificus Totalus!"

__

I guess he's going to kill me now. Be safe, Lily, Harry.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you, James. Not quite."

__

What?

Voldemort rested his wand tip against James's forehead, the horrible smile back on his face. "You could still be quite useful to me if you would see the idiocy of your ways. So I'm going to give you more time to think about life in general … without having the trouble of holding you prisoner. You see, James, I've been longing to try this curse out for years." He smirked – an expression that looked more than a little out of place on his snake-like face. The cold voice took on a lecturing note. "This is very dark magic, little Auror. It is a difficult and dangerous spell, designed to cut the subject's mind loose from his body and bind it in the netherworld … which, by all accounts, is not a nice place, not at all. The trick, of course, is to manage the linking spell, which ties the subject's mind to the caster. And _that_, former Head Boy, means that the caster can bring the subject _back_ whenever he chooses. In short, James, it's going to look like you're dead, which will doubtless do wonders for public morale. But you're really going to be stuck in a very nasty place with nothing to do but think until I have leisure to deal with you … and if I die, your mind is going to be lost there forever. So you'd better hope I succeed, hadn't you?"

__

I can break loose from this. He got out of the body-bind spell; I can do it to. Got to try. I can't let him go after Harry. I've got to get free.

Voldemort continued speaking, his voice low and distant, chanting the words of the curse. James could feel it, could feel cold seeping into his limbs, his senses dimming oddly, his head beginning to vibrate with pain. Something was fighting, struggling to break away, and he tried to hang on to it.

__

Harry. Lily. Focus! Can't let it work – have to get away, have to stop him – 

Then it ripped and wrenched and twisted and he _knew_ what was happening and it _hurt,_ hurt worse than the Cruciatus, and he would have screamed but he suddenly couldn't even fight the body-bind any more because it was tearing loose and he couldn't feel anything and the light was blinding and Harry and Lily were going to die and he had failed, failed, failed –

__

I'm sorry, Harry.

And then he was pulled into a howling sea of darkness and it didn't matter anymore. 

~ ~ ~ ~

A/N: All will be revealed in later installments. Really. 

Oh yeah, if you're still here after that display of horrible writing, it means you really like James-comes-back-from-the-dead stories. So, you ought to go read Lady Geuna's "Charmed Curses" (work in progress), and BrieflyDel's "Prongs Rides Again" (complete), both of which are much, much, MUCH better than mine. They're fantastic! 


	2. June 24th, 1995

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Everything *still* belongs to J. K. Rowlings. I admit that I've freely borrowed quotes (and lines) from the books – but, hey, I'm not making money off of this. And I never will. 

A/N: Thanks to TheRedFeatheryPlug, All Mighty Terrestrial, Midnight Dragon, Waxwing, and spangle star for reviewing. :-)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

A tale covering the summer after Harry's fourth year, among other things … with a heavy emphasis on James Potter.

CHAPTER TWO

__

"I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman's foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost. . . but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know...

-- Tom Riddle, in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

He knew that time was passing. Although he had no way to measure minutes, hours, days, or years, he was aware of each moment as it slid by, painfully conscious that, somewhere, the sun was setting and rising, birds were singing, the wind was blowing, people were working, playing, eating and sleeping – and he hoped desperately that, somewhere, Harry was alive, being raised by Lily – perhaps even starting Hogwarts. 

Trying to think about Harry and Lily helped a little, as long as he could avoid wondering if Voldemort had caught and killed them. He didn't really think that the Dark Lord had managed – after all, he knew that something had gone wrong just moments after the curse had taken effect. He had barely arrived in this Swamp of Dementer-Essence, as he had since dubbed it, when the connection that he could feel tying him to Voldemort had gone haywire. It had felt almost as if a gigantic rubber band (fun Muggle invention) had connected their two minds – and something had happened to Voldemort's end of the connection.

It had elongated, pulling painfully at him, then snapped back, almost vanishing, and the loss of the tether had sent him tumbling through the twisting darkness of his new hell. He had lost something then – it had felt as if a soul he hadn't even known he still had had been torn out. It had hurt as badly as the original curse, and he had not been able to think straight for – well, he had no idea how many days, but it had certainly been a long time.

He could still feel the elastic sometimes, when it momentarily pulled taut, but there seemed to be very little on the other end. His hypothesis – he had, after all, had many years to think about it – was that Lily had managed to kill Voldemort. The latter's mind had then been pulled into this same nasty place by the binding curse, which certainly served Voldemort right. 

Now, his only hope was that Voldemort was as miserable as he was. 

Chances were that the seeping, biting coldness would affect anyone, even someone as serpentine as Mr. Formerly-Immortal-and-Very-Evil Riddle. He still hadn't figured out how he could feel the cold and see the darkness if he'd lost all his senses, but the problem at least provided him with something to think about. 

One had to think constantly, for an empty mind called out to be filled – and evil memories, pain, and nightmares were all that the darkness could summon. He had given up wishing he could die – if Voldemort really *was* here too, it meant that he, James, was stuck here forever, so trying to imagine ways one could kill oneself without any weapons – without any *body*, for that matter – wasn't too useful. 

Sometimes, he thought that the darkness would drive him mad, and, indeed, some of his thoughts were painfully unhinged. He could remember a time when he had been unable to think, had been trapped in a tearing whirlpool of nightmarish images, unable even to scream, but he had gotten better. That was odd, that was. Now, he could almost always think straight. He had a feeling it had something to do with the tether, which had been moving recently, pulling intangibly at him, tightening and growing more corporeal. He didn't know what it meant, and he didn't really want to think what it might mean. 

In fact, as long as he didn't think about possible explanations for the phenomena, the tether's presence as the one solid thing in this liquid blackness was almost comforting. 

Lily and Harry. He pushed away an insidious image of Voldemort returning to life, wreaking havoc on England, and instead concentrated on his wife and son. 

Maybe it was breakfast time around where they were. Lily might be scrambling eggs, humming one of those quaint Muggle songs she loved so much. Harry might be setting the table or feeding the cat. They'd have a cat, of course – Lily liked cats. At a guess, he'd say Harry was – oh, at least ten now. He tried to envision his son, tried to picture the bright green eyes and the untidy hair he'd doubtless have – probably glasses too – but, just as every time before, all he could summon was more darkness and an infant's desperate cry.

It would be so much more bearable if the darkness would let him sleep.

* * * * *

__

Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.

Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master. 

Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.

* * *

__

And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hanging in the air. ... It's gone wrong,_ he thought. . . _it's drowned. .. please . . . please let it be dead. ...

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

* * * * *

The Godric Hollow Cemetery was _not_ a public burial place. Rather, it was something along the lines of a wizarding tourist attraction – and also something along the lines of a memorial to those who died during the war. 

There were only a few tombs, most of them represented by small, old tombstones sprawled unevenly about the neatly trimmed grass. But the most recent grave was marked by a marble dome ornamented by statues – angels, warriors, mothers, and cherubs, among others. On one side, a moving picture of the grave's occupants (before their death) and their infant son had been placed, charmed against the weather. This was the expensive tomb, the tomb that had necessitated the closure of the cemetery to common graves, the tomb that people came to see – the tomb where Lily and James Potter lay hand-in-hand in a single coffin, together in death as they had been in life.

Every October 31st, crowds of people congregated at the graveyard, quietly standing about the dome, tucking flowers into its niches, staring at the side ornamented by the picture, or talking softly among themselves. 

"People need heroes," the Minister had said. "Let it be a memorial to the war; let people come. They were You-Know-Who's last victims, and Harry Potter's parents – of course the nation will wish to remember them. No expenses spared."

He was right – and people did not _just_ come on October 31st. There were flowers on the grave year-round. Families who had lost loved ones tended to come on the anniversaries of their bereavements, drawn by an undefined feeling of thankfulness for those who had ended the killing. Those who had known the dead came whenever they thought of their lost friends. Tourists always dropped by Godric's Hollow when they were in the area – first to visit the Site of You-Know-Who's Defeat, then to stand around the grave, fidgeting and looking sober. 

The Ministry even paid for caretakers to trim the grass, weed the flower borders, polish the tombstones, act as a tour guide, and clean up after the crowds of visitors. It was a great source of grief to those dour old men that Harry Potter himself had never come to see his parents' tomb – they would have dearly loved to trot out his reaction before their tourists. 

But he did not come, and they continued to devote themselves to earning their paychecks by keeping the cemetery spotless. They even succeeded in preventing vandalism of the Potter Memorial – from the day of its construction until the evening the Triwizard Tournament was completed.

They had no idea that one of the bodies under the dome had not altered a fraction since the day it was laid there. No-one had thought to test the corpses for lingering remnants of magic before the funeral.

And none of them were even in the cemetery the evening of June 24th, 1995. 

If they had been, they might have died of shock. 

* * * * *

James had no idea what was happening, but he was fairly sure he did not like it.

A surge of power had just rushed through the connection – and it had _hurt_. He had thought that whatever form was left to him would explode from the rush of raw magical energy, and had welcomed the thought, for he was certainly ready to die. Instead, it wrenched at him, pulling him through the thick blackness at an insane speed. The sensation of being dragged through molten lava only lasted a few moments; then he seemed to burst through a barrier – and then he was being crushed back into shape, compacted and stretched and twisted. 

Returned to a body.

He didn't even realize what had happened until he _heard_ himself give a hoarse cry of pain. The fact that he could hear and speak again tipped him off that he wasn't wandering in that howling wilderness any more … although he certainly had no idea where he was. 

After so long, having senses again was so strange as to be frightening. So much information, _too_ much information, rushing in at once, overloading his mind, bewildering him. He could feel something like matted cloth underneath him, could feel cold air pressing down on every spot of exposed skin – he could hear himself gasping raggedly for breath, struggling to draw in the stale air in this otherwise-silent place. There was the coppery tang of dried blood in his mouth, but either his eyes weren't working or this place was utterly dark. And he could smell – dear God, what _was_ that horrible stench? It smelled like … rotting … corpse … 

A sudden spasm of complete, utter, unreasoning terror and claustrophobia shook him. One of his hands contracted violently – and he felt cold, bony fingers lying in his palm.

Something snapped in him, and he involuntarily released a flood of wandless magic. 

His newly-regained ears weren't ready to handle the explosion that suddenly assailed them as half of the marble dome exploded in a shower of flying masonry. James rolled sideways, away from the decomposing body beside him, and tumbled through the splintered side of the coffin, sucking in a breath of suddenly clean air as he did so. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dim moonlight – it was much too bright after years of darkness. 

Staggering blindly, he stumbled over shards of marble until he felt grass under his bare feet, and fell to the ground, quivering and retching. 

It seemed a long time before he had calmed down enough to open his eyes, but the cold breeze was really growing unbearable. He blinked down at the fuzzy ground below him, correctly identifying the pale shapes against the darker grass as his outspread hands. 

Laboriously, he pushed himself into a sitting position, somehow unsurprised to find that all of the bruises and aches he remembered from his 

__

death

last encounter with Voldemort were still present and hurting. Even the blood from where he'd bitten through his lip under the Cruciatus curse was still there, though it tasted a trifle stale. He didn't question the oddity of the whole thing. It all seemed vaguely unimportant and irrelevant – he didn't even particularly care how he'd come back to life. 

As he stumbled painfully to his feet, he noticed that the dress robes he was wearing were not in particularly good shape. They were rotted and crumbling - in fact, they appeared to be in danger of falling off of him altogether. That explained why he was so cold, at least. He took one step and instantly fell down again, bringing his forehead into violent contact with a chunk of stone. Blood trickled down his nose, and he shook his head, vexed.

__

Stupid this is stupid got to find Lily Harry bloody glasses can't see a thing it's cold hot chocolate Lily wonder where I am where they are ow this really doesn't feel good Lily can fix it good with charms embarrassing looking like this glasses got to find Harry Lily graveyard where glasses ouch bloody rock where's Lily …

He crawled forward again, then froze as the smell from the tomb wafted back across his nose. He was missing something, something important – he'd forgotten something – this meant something – 

He raised his head slowly and squinted at the remaining wall of the dome, ignoring the blood trickling into his mouth. There were words on a plaque right next to the shattered edge, carved letters on a brilliantly polished gold plaque that reflected the moonlight back into his light-deprived eyes. He crept forward again.

****

JAMES AND LILY POTTER

BELOVED PARENTS OF HARRY POTTER

1960 – 1981.

REST IN PEACE

There were more words, many more words, but they were smaller, and he didn't even try to read them.

__

James and Lily Potter. Harry Potter. 1981. Rest in peace. Lily. Harry. Rest. Tomb. Corpse. Bones. Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead – dead. 

__

Dead. 

They were dead.

Gone. 

Lily and Harry, dead. 

Dead because he'd been a selfish, thoughtless, arrogant prat and married Lily when he knew it would be dangerous for her. Dead because he hadn't protected Harry as he had promised to.

__

Dead.

Lily, with her laughter and her smiles and her kind spirit and her long red hair that glowed in the sunlight; Harry, with his tufts of hair and enormous green eyes, his gurgling laugh and prattling infant voice. Dead and gone and rotting because of _him_. 

He stumbled backward, a hysterical sob rising in his chest. It couldn't be true, but – but it was. He'd known all along, hadn't he? All those years, those *centuries* in wherever Voldemort had trapped him, all that time they'd been dead and gone and buried and turning into lifeless skeletons with cold fingers and horrible grins. And what about Sirius and Remus and Peter? How could Sirius and Peter possibly be alive? Voldemort had come to the house, had been able to see it, and he couldn't have done that without the Secret Keeper being dead, he couldn't. And surely he'd thought Sirius was the secret keeper.

The whole horrible scenario flashed across his frantic mind – Sirius, caught and tortured until he admitted that Peter knew, not him, then killed – Peter, poor little defenseless Peter, hunted down, writhing under a curse, lying still with unseeing eyes, Voldemort laughing –

And Remus. What had happened to Remus?

__

The spy the spy it's his fault isn't it Sirius said so it must be true but Moony wouldn't ever do that, would he?

Your fault again. Would He have ever gone after Remus if he wasn't one of *your* friends?

He's probably dead too.

Dead and rotting, like Lily, my beautiful Lily - 

The sob broke out, turned into a keening wail of pain. 

Almost without thinking, he spun and fled from the cemetery, bashing his shins against gravestones, crashing through the gate, then weaving crazily down the lane. They were dead – everyone he had ever cared about, everyone he ought to have protect, was dead.

__

I failed, failed, failed …

He wished he could kill himself, smash his head against the ground until darkness took him back and made him forget the grief that ripped at his heart, but he couldn't, he'd promised. 

What was left? What could he do now – go find Dumbledore?

James dropped to his knees under the shade of a tree, cradling his head in trembling hands. Was Dumbledore even still alive? Another paralyzing thought slammed into his mind – if he was back, hadn't Voldemort called him? 

__

"… the caster can bring the subject back_ whenever he chooses …"_

No. He wouldn't look at those horrible red eyes again. Couldn't. Couldn't put anyone else into danger, either. If it hadn't been for him, Lily and Sirius and Peter and Remus would all be happy and normal and _alive_ – he couldn't risk bringing death on anyone else. 

Almost without conscious decision, he transformed. 

The gut-wrenching guilt vanished almost immediately – a deer, after all, could not feel as deeply. It lifted its antlered head and loped noiselessly into the forest. It knew it had to hide … and it was hungry. Food first. 

Then sleep. 

* * * * *

When the sun peeked over the horizon, its rosy light illuminated two corduroy-trouser-clad figures leaning on the cemetery's stone wall.

"Well, George," said Ed, "this ain't real good."

There was a long silence as George and Ed each took a pull on their pipes, then George nodded slowly. "Aye."

"Right bloody fix this is, what with young Potter winnin' that bloody Tournament las' night an' all. We can't 'ave toorists 'ere with the place lookin' like a ruddy junkyard. Once I find out 'oo did this 'ere bit 'o mutilatin' government property, they'll be sorry they ever 'eard o' Godric's 'Ollow Cemetery."

The birds could be heard singing in the distance as the two caretakers studied the chunks of white marble and torn flowers that littered the otherwise-pristine graveyard. 

"Roight," said George.

"Can't stand these bloody vandals we git nowadays. A national toorist 'traction, that's what this 'ere is. An' ye git bloody pranksters what prob'ly think they're bloomin' hilarious comin' down here an' blastin' up government property. It's a cryin' scandal, George, that's what it is."

George squinted at his pipe, then slowly drew it out of his mouth and tapped it against the wall. "Aye," he said.

"And if'n it comes out what's happened, who's goin' t'git the blame, eh? Us, that's who. Us what's worked our very lives out keepin' this 'ere spot clean an' above reproach. It's a grim show, George."

George thrust his hat back and scratched at his scanty locks. "Roight."

"Bloody hell, they even took one o' them bodies. National 'ero or no national 'ero, 'oo'd want a ruddy skeleton, George? Bloomin' insane, that's what they are. Runnin' off with a rottin' corpse. Oughta be clapped in St. Mungo's the whole lot of 'em. Crackers. They're all bloody crackers."

George nodded, teeth clamped around his pipestem. "Aye."

"Guess we'd best get a move on it, eh?" Ed growled, beginning to clamber over the wall. "Won't be getting' no overtime pay for this, neither. Git yer wand out an' help, George – if'n we don't git this cleaned up right proper hasty-like, the bloody government'll 'ave our pay. Got ter keep it hushed up, eh?"

George squinted up at the sun, then back down at Ed. "Roight!"

END OF CHAPTER TWO

~~~~~~~~~


	3. Scandal at Godric's Hollow Cemetery

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Oddly enough, J. K. Rowlings continues to own Harry Potter and all other things pertaining to him. Since I have no desire to be sued, I will avoid claiming the contrary. 

A/N: Thanks to vmr, K.T., TheRedFeatheryPlug, Taracollowen, Lyta Padfoot, hi, LittleEar BigEar's Sis, starkitty, ArtGirl, Stonehenge, The Super Star, spangle star and Xavien (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their comments on Chapter Two – special thanks to Little Ear BigEar's Sis for pointing out the error with the dates on the tombstone. 1979 – 1981, indeed. Bet y'all didn't know James and Lily died _that _young, eh? ;-) Hopefully, the problem should be fixed by now. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

A tale covering the summer after Harry's fourth year, among other things … with a heavy emphasis on James Potter.

CHAPTER THREE

__

"…. Now, I've been keeping an eye on the Daily Prophet_, Harry…"_

"- you and the rest of the world," said Harry bitterly. 

-- Sirius Black and Harry Potter, in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

__

August 2nd 1995

****

SCANDAL AT GODRIC'S HOLLOW CEMETERY

Horace Blake, Daily Prophet_ Special Correspondent_

It has recently come to the attention of the Ministry that vandals have been tampering with a valued national memorial to the courage and sacrifice shown in the war against You-Know-Who. Late in June, the tomb of James and Lily Potter, parents of the Boy Who Lived, was nearly demolished by a strong curse. According to eyewitnesses, chunks of marble and dust from the dome virtually turned the grass in the graveyard white.

Shockingly, the caretakers of Godric's Hollow Cemetery, George Miller and Edward Peterson by name, did not see fit to inform the Ministry of this terrible desecration. Instead, the two elderly wizards attempted to disguise the fact that they had failed in their duty by repairing and repainting the dome. Their efforts, however, were less than successful. Not only did the reconstructed dome leak, but its structural integrity had been compromised. During a heavy winds last Friday, the damaged side of the structure collapsed again, nearly injuring Howard and Bertha Crawley, visitors from the south.

When ministry officials arrived to investigate, they discovered that the irreparable damage to the memorial was the least of their worries. Far more horrifying is the loss of one of the bodies this memorial was erected to guard. The coffin that contained the late parents of Harry Potter, recent Triwizard Champion, had been shattered. Although the body of Lily Evans – no longer resembling the vivacious bride whom her contemporaries fondly remember – was undamaged, the form of James Potter had vanished without a trace.

Ministry officials are as baffled by the motives behind this peculiar and disconcerting theft as they are by the task of locating the body.

"The really bizarre thing," said Humphrey Fawcett, the Hit Wizard in charge of the investigation, "is that the damage appears to have been done from the inside. We figure that some sort of complicated exploding hex must have been used on the dome to make the left side collapse outward instead of inward, but we really don't see how the coffin itself could have just splintered outward like that. And Mrs. Potter's skeleton wasn't disturbed in the least. It must have taken some serious power to manage that."

The Minister himself suggests that the incident may have been the work of Sirius Black, notorious Azkaban convict.

"Black is still on the loose," Minister Fudge stated, "though we hope to catch him soon. Seeing that he was responsible for the Potters' deaths in the first place, it's quite possible that he decided to destroy their resting place as a final act of his hatred toward them. However, the public may be assured that we have leads and will soon have Black in custody."

The Boy Who Lived himself has been unavailable for comment, and, in fact, according to Mr. Peterson, has never even visited his parents' grave.

"We ain't sure whether 'e just don't care or whether it'd be too painful for 'im," Mr. Peterson said, going on to add that he and Mr. Miller had acted with the best intentions in disguising the horrendous theft. Mr. Miller expressed agreement to these sentiments.

Nevertheless, it seems probable that the two caretakers will lose the job that they have held for the past fourteen years.

Mr. Miller and Mr. Peterson coincide completely in their opinion on this likelihood.

"It's a bloody shame, that's what it is."

* * * * *

"FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY! IF I HAVE TO CALL YOU AGAIN, THERE WILL BE _DIRE CONSEQUENCES!_"

Ron winced and clasped his hands across his ears. Mrs. Weasley's strident voice did not go well with early-morning headaches. 

"Buck up, Ron," Ginny whispered from across the table, wiping a hand across her bleary brown eyes. "Look at it this way – she could be yelling at _us_ instead." 

"Urgh," Ron answered indistinctly, and buried his head in his arms, nearly getting his red hair into his breakfast. 

"Leaving already, Percy?" Arthur Weasley asked, lowering his coffee cup.

"Yes, Father," Percy answered, scraping his chair back and rising to his feet. "I have a great deal to get done at the Ministry." 

Ron propped his head back up on one hand and blinked unenthusiastically at the burnt toast on his plate. "Can't say I blame you," he mumbled. "Wish I had an excuse to go snooze in a cozy desk chair."

Percy turned his haggard face toward Ron, frowning. The dark circles under his eyes certainly suggested that he had not been doing much napping at work lately. "That's not very amusing, Ron," he snapped. 

The twins clattered down the stairs and dodged around their mother. "Morning, Dad, Mum, Ron, Ginny," they said as one. "Bye, Perce. Pass the toast, will ya, Ron?" 

"Good-bye," Percy said stiffly, and apparated right out of the kitchen. 

"Cheery chap in the morning, isn't he?" Ron muttered around a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed unenthusiastically and eyed his father, who looked even more careworn than Percy. "You all right, Dad?"

Mr. Weasley rubbed at his forehead, sighing heavily. "You needn't nag at your brother, Ron. Percy and I are both extremely busy at the Ministry, what with our usual work, the disturbance created by the absences of Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman, and … and You-Know-Who's return."

That put an effective damper on conversation. The twins stopped chewing to look at each other, blank-faced, and Ginny stared into her milk as if it contained the secrets of life itself … that, or the secret to gaining Harry Potter's heart. 

"Where's this morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet?_" Mr. Weasley asked briskly, giving his coffee mug a shake. "Let's have a look at the news, shall we?"

Mrs. Weasley handed him the rolled-up paper, frowning unhappily. He shook it out in front of his face and leaned back, obviously trying to put off worrying about his job until after breakfast.

Ron stifled a yelp as an owl landed on his shoulder. Fred and George both stopped eating to watch him as he disentangled the letter, scowling. 

"Is that from your girlf – that is to say, Hermione?" Fred asked innocently.

"Express from Bulgaria?" George added sweetly.

"She didn't go to Bulgaria," Ron growled, flushing hotly. "Her parents wouldn't let her. Look, just – just lay off, all right?"

"There's something wrong with that owl," Ginny said sharply, ducking as the creature in question took back to the air and began fluttering in a frustrated circle. 

"It's fine," George assured her.

"Just charmed to go faster," Fred explained. "Say, George, do you think we should -"

George's eyes lit up. "Spiffing idea, Fred! Sure to work."

Ginny looked from one to the other, frowning. "What? Please tell me it's not another of your Wizarding Wheezes things. If you're inventing anything that's going to be cruel to owls –"

"You wound us with such cruel allegations," Fred moaned.

At the same moment, George muttered, "She knows us too well, Fred …"

"Finite Incantum," Mrs. Weasley snapped, and the owl settled down onto the back of Percy's empty chair, hooting wearily. 

Ron unfolded the letter, ignoring the twins as they nudged each other, nodded significantly. 

__

Dear Ron,

You'll probably have already seen the Daily Prophet_ by the time you get this, even though I got it very early in the morning and charmed the owl to go as fast as it could, but I do hope you haven't written Harry yet. You _mustn't_ tell him – he has enough to worry about without this frightful article on top of it. He doesn't get the _Daily Prophet_, so if we don't bother him about it he won't know, and maybe he'll have a better summer. Please do be careful not to mention it around him if he comes to your house this summer, because there are a lot of simply frightful necromancy spells that can be used on corpses, and it's really too awful to think about._

Do take care of yourself.

Love from Hermione

"Huh?" Ron said out loud.

"What?" Fred asked eagerly, leaning over the table and nearly overturning Ginny's milk. 

"Oh, look, you lot! She signed it 'Love from Hermione!' How touching."

"You – you prat!" Ron hissed, folding the letter up and stuffing it into his pocket. "My letters are none of your business!"

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley warned, slapping a fresh tray of eggs down on the table. "_What_ did you just call your brother?" 

"Nothing he didn't deserve," Ron muttered.

Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed dangerously, but an exclamation from Mr. Weasley cut him off before she could speak. "I _say!_ Molly – did you see this?" 

"I," said Mrs. Weasley with a malevolent glance at the twins, "have not even had time to _eat_ yet, Arthur. What is it?" 

He held the paper out. "Look here! 'Scandal at Godric's Hollow Cemetery. It has recently come to the attention of the Ministry that vandals have been tampering with a valued national memorial,' and so on – but listen – 'Far more horrifying is the loss of one of the bodies this memorial was erected to guard … that of James Potter has vanished without a trace.'" 

Mrs. Weasley snatched the paper out of his hands. _"What?!"_

Fred and George grimaced. "That's just …"

"Weird."

"Sick."

Ginny shivered violently, and remained in her seat as the twins rose to peer over Mrs. Weasley's shoulders. "Poor Harry," she whispered. "I don't think he'll like that very much."

Suddenly enlightened, Ron wrapped a hand around the note from Hermione. "No, he wouldn't like it," he agreed, his voice louder than he intended. "And what's more, he doesn't even need to know. That's why we're not going to tell him – right?"

The other five looked at him, wide-eyed, then looked back at the paper.

"Right," they said in unison.

* * * * *

Sirius Black propped his chin moodily on one hand, gazing at the grey rain spattering the windows. With his other hand, he prodded a fork listlessly at a piece of overdone bacon. 

From across the table, Remus Lupin was eyeing said piece of bacon with a hungry gleam in his eyes. "Er – Padfoot. Are you planning to eat that?"

Sirius looked down at the blackened strip of meat and winced. "Definitely not. What's more, I don't think _anyone_ should eat it." His eyes traveled to Remus's empty plate with morbid fascination. "Have you no respect for your teeth at _all_ to be wolfing that cindery stuff down? No pun intended."

Remus swiped the bacon from his friend's plate and popped it into his mouth. "Have no fear: your pathetic attempts at early-morning humor are forgiven. And, no, I have no respect whatsoever for my teeth. Of course, unless you've laced these things with silver, I don't have any particular reason to worry anyway."

Looking out the window again, Sirius ignored him. "I wish it would stop raining," he said bitterly. "I'm going to go stir-crazy, sitting here with nothing to do."

"You could have _stirred_ this bacon a little more," Remus suggested, wincing as he bit down on a chunk of pure carbon. "No pun intended. And I don't think I'm going to let you make breakfast anymore."

"What?"

"Never mind." Remus pulled the _Daily Prophet_ toward himself, sighing. "Stop worrying about Harry, Sirius. He's fine. Dumbledore would know if something had happened to him."

"He hasn't written for over a week," Sirius mumbled miserably. "He could be sick, or depressed, or those Dursley-animals could be keeping him from writing." He turned mournful eyes toward Remus, looking (unsurprisingly) like a scolded dog. "Do you think he's angry at me for having to tell him he couldn't go to the Weasleys' this summer?"

"Oh, I don't think Harry would blame you for that," Remus assured him a little too quickly, beginning to unfold the paper. "You can't really expect him to be all bubbly and optimistic, though, after what happened. He's had a very rough time, Padfoot, and it's going to take him a while to get over it."

Sirius's eyes drifted back to the rain. "If he hasn't written by the end of the week, I'm going to go see him, orders or no orders."

"Don't be ridiculous, Padfoot. The wards wouldn't even let you in."

Sirius scowled rebelliously. "You said yourself that they're keyed not to let in anyone with malevolent intentions."

"And I'm sure you won't have the slightest ill feelings toward the Dursleys. Motives as pure as driven snow, I expect. Besides, you've started using a wand, and they _are_ keyed to keep people with wands _out_." 

"It's not fair," Sirius muttered. "What if something's wrong?" The sudden silence made him look up. Remus was staring at the paper in his hands, even paler than usual. "Moony? What is it?"

Remus moved his mouth soundlessly, then looked up, round-eyed with horror. "I – even – I can't – it's – they _stole_ – they – what if they –"

"And you say _I'm_ incoherent in the morning," Sirius grumbled, snatching the paper away. "What were you looking at? This Quidditch thing? Huh. The Chudley Cannons actually _won_ a game? Well, I can see how _that's_ surprising. Weren't they some third-rate team …"

Remus finally found his voice again. "They stole James's body!"

Sirius spun around so quickly that he ripped the _Daily Prophet_ in half. "What? What? James – who – _what?_" 

Remus tugged the paper from his friend's grasp, swept all the dishes off of the table, and used the now-empty surface to piece the two parts together. He skimmed the article again, aware of Sirius fidgeting at his side.

"Pettigrew," the latter spat furiously. "I'll bet it's Pettigrew – I wouldn't put desecration of a friend's resting place past _him._"

Remus ignored his diatribe, instead re-reading Fudge's quote. "With a man like that as Minister," he said slowly, "we're doomed. The man is so obsessed with proving that Voldemort has not returned that he's coming up with ridiculously implausible explanations for obvious things." Sirius continued to mutter curses on Pettigrew, and Remus rounded on him, raising his voice. "I _said_, I really _despise_ men who are so _obsessed_ with something that they refuse to _look the facts in the face!_"

Sirius stopped, and blinked at him. "Should I gather that that very pointed remark is directed at me, Moony?" Remus nodded, and Sirius dropped back into his chair. "Fine. What facts am I refusing to look at?"

"This is extremely bad," Remus said bluntly.

"Tell me something I _don't_ know," Sirius agreed bitterly. His voice shook slightly as he continued, "They can't even leave James alone after he's _dead_, curse the bloody bast –"

"That's not what I'm talking about," Remus interrupted firmly. 

Sirius looked up at him, then shut his mouth. Remus really did look like he thought this was a grave matter – though, considering the seriousness of the matter, making a pun on the word 'grave' would be quite out of place. "Go on, then."

Remus took a deep breath before speaking again. "We need to go talk to Dumbledore about this. And Harry -"

"We don't need to tell Harry!" Sirius rasped angrily. "He has enough worrying him without having to think about his parents' _corpses_ too, Moony!" 

"Sirius. How much do you know about necromancy?"

Sirius froze in his chair, eyes dilating in sudden horror. "You can't mean – they – you don't think they're trying to do _that_, do you?" he stammered. Quite suddenly, he buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered, trying to shut out the horrific images that his over-active imagination was conjuring up. Walking corpses, bloody skeletons, dead grey eyes behind glasses, bony fingers and skinless faces …

Remus didn't look too well himself. "It says 'late June,' Padfoot. We know when Voldemort came back. How much would you be willing to wager that Voldemort is behind this? Animating corpses is the darkest of dark arts –"

"_Stop_ it, Moony –"

"And what other use could one have for a corpse?" Remus demanded, raising his voice relentlessly. "He's trying to get at Harry, Sirius – he's trying to use Harry's feelings for his parents to get at him where he's most vulnerable. He could even be trying to get at _us_. What would you do, Sirius, if James knocked on your front door and told you he'd come back from the dead?"

Sirius shook his head wordlessly.

"We've got to go to Dumbledore about this – we've got to think of some way to protect Harry." Remus stared down at the paper for a moment, then, without warning, gave the small table a shove that completely overturned it. Quivering, he turned and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Shocked by this rare display of Remus's deeply hidden temper, Sirius looked up at him, trying to hide the fact that he was close to tears. 

"Fine. But, Moony – please, let's not tell Harry unless Dumbledore says we absolutely have to."

Still facing the window, Remus nodded slowly. 

* * * * *

The flickering green light lit Lucius Malfoy's pale, sharp face, and turned his silver-blond hair into a weirdly dancing halo. It cast shadows across the great snake Nagini's smooth scales and reflected deep in her unfathomable eyes. And it glinted eerily off slitted red eyes in the deep shadow of a hood.

Lucius drummed his aristocratically slender fingers on the arm of his chair, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. "I suppose," he said slowly, distaste coloring every word, "that it would be possible to hire a Muggle to do the job."

Voldemort hissed discontentedly, sounding remarkably like his pet snake. "Our little friend Wormtail tells me that the wards are will keep out anyone who is considering harming the boy."

Another silence descended on the room, and Lucius watched the enchanted flames leap in the stone hearth. "So … not only does the presence of his blood relatives protect the boy from harm, but further charms have been placed on that despicable Muggle residence to keep anyone from even coming near it … anyone who has been using a wand or who plans to hurt the Potter brat. Would someone under the Imperius curse be kept out?"

Voldemort inclined his head thoughtfully. "I cannot believe that Dumbledore would not have considered that possibility. There are ways to detect the presence of that spell … it would be a difficult task to build wards that kept victims of the curse out, but not impossible for Dumbledore."

Lucius considered that for a few moments, then shrugged disdainfully. "We could simply call down a destructive curse on this whole 'Privet Drive' place – a fiery shower, an earthquake, a flood. Protecting a single house against a cataclysm of that magnitude is impossible."

For a long moment, Voldemort said nothing. Then he shook his shrouded head, slowly and a trifle reluctantly. "That boy has shown an irritating penchant for surviving things that should have killed him. No … I am certain he would find a way to escape the fires of hell themselves if we summoned them to Surrey."

"We could lure him out of safety by putting those … _Weasleys_ … into danger, but your little rat has been unable to tell us how to get into the junk pile they call 'home.' Dumbledore has massed a ridiculous number of protection spells about it as well." Lucius smiled suddenly. "Or we could summon the fires of hell to Ottery St. Catchpole instead, my lord …"

Voldemort chuckled dryly. "I doubt Dumbledore would even let the boy know that his friends were in danger if we managed that."

Lucius rested his chin on one hand, wondering at the Dark Lord's lassitude. This "planning session" seemed to consist primarily of him, Malfoy, making suggestions, and the Dark Lord shooting them down. While being Voldemort's favored consultant was an excellent position, it was growing rather wearisome.

"It all seems to come back to Dumbledore," he mused. "If only Severus could manage to poison him …"

The heavy oaken door banged open, setting the heavy green curtains fluttering. "My lord!" Peter Pettigrew's shrill voice called. "You – you requested t-today's _Daily Prophet_. It – it has c-come." 

"How very observant of you, Peter," Voldemort hissed, his voice suddenly hardening with cold menace. Lucius sat up straight and arranged his face into a mask of cool arrogance. He really couldn't stand Wormtail – a cowardly, mindless, sniveling traitor who had betrayed his friends out of simple fear, when he had surely known that he could get nothing out of being Voldemort's lackey. Given the chance, Wormtail would probably go running back to his friends … but, no, evidence suggested that he was even more frightened of them than of the Dark Lord.

That only further proved the man's lack of intelligence.

Pettigrew approached slowly, sweat glistening on his forehead, and held out the paper, though he was not near enough for the Dark Lord to take it without having to stretch in an undignified manner. Idiot. "Th-th-there's an article about – about G-godric's Hollow C-c-c-cemetery – the P-potters' g-g-g-grave – it – it – b-broken into and – and – i-i-into a-and – in –" 

Malfoy languidly reached out and swiped the paper from Pettigrew's trembling hands. It took him less than five seconds to run an eye down the column and gather the gist of the article. Smoothly, he handed the _Daily Prophet_ to Voldemort with a half bow. "Someone appears to have stolen James Potter's body, my lord."

He knew the Dark Lord well enough to tell when he was surprised. Voldemort's long white fingers tightened on the carved arm of his throne-like chair, and his head tilted back slightly. He drew in a long, hissing breath, then laughed softly, sounding genuinely delighted. He waved the paper away, leaning back.

"Read it to me, Lucius." His voice changed, sharpened. "Wormtail – go." 

The short man scuttled from the room, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder as he went. 

Skipping the title, Lucius began to read the article, keeping his voice measured and clear. Voldemort listened through the first four paragraphs without moving, but interrupted when Lucius reached the quote by Humphrey Fawcett.

"From the inside?" His cold voice was vibrating with excitement, and Lucius had a difficult time keeping the curiosity out of his voice as he answered.

"Yes, my lord – both dome and coffin were exploded outward rather than inward." 

"And the mudblood girl's body was not disturbed," Voldemort mused. Shaking himself out of whatever reverie he had fallen into, he waved a hand. "Continue."

When Lucius finished and folded up the article, Voldemort laid his fingertips together, steepling his long white hands. "It's a bloody miracle, that's what it is," he murmured mockingly, paraphrasing the article's ending quote. Then he smiled slowly, green firelight shining off his teeth. "Well, well, well. It seems, my dear Malfoy, that I was wrong … for once. I really thought that my 'death' had finished him off forever … but I must say I have rarely been happier to be in error."

Lucius arched one of his eyebrows, managing to appear interested and non-judgmental at the same time. There was excitement seeping back into Voldemort's voice and gestures – whatever this bizarre article meant, the Dark Lord was certainly pleased by it. 

"How many of my trusty Death Eaters have spare time on their hands … or have any experience tracking people?" he inquired. 

Lucius reeled off a few names, ending, a trifle reluctantly, with his own. 

The Dark Lord nodded slowly, then let out a hissing sigh. "Too few, Lucius. Too few. Had I but half-a-dozen competent servants, this war would be over before it began … but you and our dear friend Severus are among the only intelligent soldiers in my ranks, and Severus's loyalties are … in question, shall we say." His serpentine eyes glittered in the half-light. "But it appears I may be able to remedy this problem after all." 

He glanced sharply at Lucius's face, then continued, "Leave Severus Snape unaware of this mission, Malfoy, or it will go worse for you. Pick five whom you can trust not to bungle this affair too badly, and go to Godric's Hollow. When you get there … I want you to find James Potter. And bring him to me – alive."

END OF CHAPTER THREE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Answer to hi's question: No, James has no idea that Peter betrayed him. He assumes that either the secret was tortured out of Peter, or that Peter was just killed by the Death Eaters. He's not the type of person who would jump to the conclusion that one of his three best friends would really be spying for Voldemort. Needless to say, this is going to cause him a bit of trouble later on…


	4. Peter

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his sundry acquaintances belong to J. K. Rowlings, Warner Bros, and half-a-million other corporations. This is a work of fan-fiction; I am not making money off of it. That's actually kind of a shame when one considers how much time I'm spending writing this …

A/N: Thanks to PhoenixMage, tsuki tatsu, TheRedFeatheryPlug, vmr, spangle star, Phoenix, Stonehenge, Luna Rose, livic88, Taracollowen, Jeva, Kaydee, and Giesbrecht (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their comments on Chapter Three. I'm really thrilled that people are enjoying my writing. :-)

I've responded to a few questions by reviewers down at the end of this chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER FOUR

__

" … Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter…."

~ Barty Crouch, Jr., in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

The Dark Lord was nearly snarling with anger. Peter huddled in one corner of the cold room, keeping as far away from his master as he could. He watched the tall, thin man pace restlessly before the cold hearth, cursing in hissed whispers – probably speaking Parseltongue – and almost wished himself back in the Shrieking Shack, being threatened by Remus and Sirius. 

But only _almost_.

It had been eight days, and Lucius Malfoy's men were no closer to finding James than they had been before they even started. The Dark Lord was growing very angry. Malfoy had suggested that "Potter" might have fled to Hogwarts, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had shot that suggestion down immediately. For some reason, he seemed absolutely certain that James would not have gone to Hogwarts, or gone to Surrey after his son, or even gone to the Ministry. Instead of considering these perfectly logical possibilities, he continued to insist that James could be found in the vicinity of Godric's Hollow.

Peter couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that heads would begin rolling if Malfoy didn't get any results soon. 

He pulled even further back into the corner, holding his silver hand protectively in front of his face, when the Dark Lord suddenly stopped pacing. Those frightful red eyes turned slowly toward him, and Peter looked quickly down at the ground, his flesh creeping in fear. "Wormtail, my little friend," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named whispered, voice cold with menace, "something has just occurred to me." He reached Peter's side in three long strides, and Peter forced himself to look up, quivering nervously.

"My Lord? I – I hope I h-h-haven't offended you in any way –"

"As if anything a rat like you is capable of could actually *offend* me, Wormtail. Really, that is quite insulting." Peter's heart sank, and he gulped nervously. "But, come, I have a few questions for you, Peter. Have you, perhaps, neglected to mention a few things to me?"

Peter's mind raced wildly. Whatever could the Dark Lord be talking about? "I – I don't think so – c-certainly not intentionally, My Lord – I would never even think of –"

"Let me phrase this in a way even your feeble brain can understand, Wormtail. While you were telling me that entrancing story about yourself and that fool Sirius Black becoming Animagi, did you somehow forget to mention that James Potter had also become one?"

For a moment, Peter thought his heart would actually stop beating. It was true – he had left all mention of James out of his explanation as to why he had managed to survive in hiding for twelve years. It hadn't seemed important – he had thought James was dead. He had mentioned Sirius because Sirius was, without a doubt, very much alive, and the Dark Lord had needed to know. But there had been no point in dragging up old pain by having to talk about James. Frantically, he searched his mind for a feasible explanation. 

The only solution he could come up with was to throw himself face-down on the cold floor and clutch at the Dark Lord's robes. "Forgive me, Master – I – I did not think to mention it – I swear, Master, that if it had once occurred to me that it might be important, I w-w-would have told you everything! I never meant –"

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was manifestly not pacified by Peter's frantic babble of explanation and apologies. He kicked Peter's hands away and angrily hissed, "You little _fool_. Eight days since you learned that my servants are searching for James Potter, searching tirelessly for our key to Harry Potter, and it never once occurred to you that he might be hiding in his Animagus form? Not even when you, yourself, spent twelve years doing just that? Either you are too great an idiot to even deserve being kept alive, or you have deliberately been concealing this matter from me."

That sounded like a death sentence if anything ever had. 

And it wasn't even deserved! He had been too busy trying to wrap his mind around the idea that _James was alive again_ – too busy feeling sick to his stomach, terrified, guilty, and, most frightening of all, _pleased_ – to think about technicalities such as how James was avoiding the Death Eater hunters.

"What kind of animal is he?" the Dark Lord snarled. His eyes seemed almost to be glowing with rage. 

Peter hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. He felt a curious reluctance to give up the information, and it troubled him. He had certainly felt nothing of the kind while informing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that Sirius Black could take on the form of a large black dog with pale eyes. But time was running out, and he had to answer.

"A – a stag, My Lord! J-J-James always turned into a stag."

"I'm glad you finally remembered, Wormtail," the cold, silky voice said. "Perhaps you'd care to describe the creature?"

"It – it was fairly dark-colored for a deer…" Peter stammered helplessly. 

"Is that all you have to say?" the Dark Lord asked, a touch incredulously.

Peter racked his brains for a way to describe it. He remembered _exactly_ what Prongs looked like – every hour the Marauders had spent together in animal form was engraved on his memory. But, not having seen many other deer, he really had no way to point out easily identifiable features of the stag in question.

"It had thin legs," he finally said, aware that none of this was very helpful, "and sharp antlers. Uh … g-grey eyes. It had grey eyes. With light patches around them." 

Thankfully, the Dark Lord seemed satisfied. "Thank you, Wormtail," he said graciously. "That should be very helpful … though, of course, it would have been much _more_ helpful if you had thought of this last week." 

"I – I – I am happy to have b-b-been of s-service, My Lord," he stuttered desperately. He had a feeling that his master was not going to let him off that easily for the delay.

He was right.

"_Crucio_." 

* * * * *

The aches and pains from the curse were still present at noon three days later when Lucius Malfoy apparated right into the middle of the room, radiating smug triumph.

"My Lord," he drawled, bowing smoothly. "I am delighted to report that our search has finally succeeded." He flicked a graceful hand back as three other Death Eaters tumbled out of thin air, obviously disoriented by their portkey journey. When they straightened, Peter could the still form of a stag sprawled on the ground between them.

"Well done, Lucius," the Dark Lord murmured, a current of excitement running through his voice. "Well done, indeed." 

Malfoy bowed again in acknowledgement of the compliment, managing to look poised and in-control even with leaves stuck in his otherwise-immaculate hair and mud on his expensive boots. "You flatter me, My Lord."

Voldemort nodded at him with the courtesy that he reserved for Malfoy alone out of all of his Death Eaters. Peter frowned in his corner. If he, Wormtail, acted an _eighth_ as arrogant as Malfoy, the Dark Lord would have skinned him alive years ago. Hell, the Dark Lord would have done that if he acted an eighth as arrogant as _Severus Snape_, even. His eyes flickered unwillingly to the muddy, matted fur of the stag that lay motionless on the flagged floor, barely breathing, and he caught his breath nervously.

"Wormtail," called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, with the peculiar mixture of disgust and patronization that he commonly used on Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Wormtail himself. "Come here, rat."

Much as he hated that particular tone of his lord's voice, Peter found himself scrambling quickly to his feet and scuttling to Voldemort's side. "Y-y-yes, My Lord?" 

Malfoy arched his eyebrows, looking at Peter as he might have looked at an insolent house elf. Peter braced himself for a cutting remark from the Death-Eater-of-the-Day, but, as always, Malfoy seemed to consider actually _speaking _to Wormtail beneath him. 

"So, Wormtail," the Dark Lord murmured, laying a cold hand on Peter's shoulder with false friendliness, "is this who we think it is?"

It was. Of course it was. Even after fourteen years, he could still recognize Prongs in a flash. "I – I – I th-think so, M-My Lord."

"You _think_ so? Tsk, tsk, Wormtail, what a vacillating manner you have." The long fingers on his shoulder tightened, bruising his skin. "I don't really approve of uncertainty, Wormtail."

"Y-y-yes, My Lord, it's – it's – it's him."

"James Potter."

"Yes."

"Good." The Dark Lord actually patted him on the head then, with the approval one might show a pet that had finally managed to fetch a stick. Peter shrunk away, then stood staring down at the stag. He could count its ribs easily – it was as thin as … well … it was thinner than he had ever seen it before. The long legs were scratched and covered in mud and burrs; one branch of the antlers had broken off. The eyes were closed, for which he was deeply, deeply thankful. He wasn't ready yet to look at the face of his oldest friend, the man he had betrayed to death … but, no, he had never really died, had he? 

It was all too confusing. 

He gradually became aware that Malfoy was talking, explaining, in that unhurried, cool voice, how they had systematically combed the forest, following cloven hoofprints, and, just an hour ago, found this stag grazing in a small clearing. Apparently Malfoy had sent his confederates away once they got close to a potential target … probably, Peter had to admit, a smart move. If they had tried to surround him, Prongs would certainly have noticed their scent on the wind. But thinking about Prongs was making him feel ill again, so he turned to slink back to his corner.

"I do not believe he noticed me as I approached him," Malfoy was saying. "I stunned him, then put him into a deep sleep – and he should be quite unaware of what occurred. Once my … companions … brought the portkey you had provided us with, I apparated here with the news. I trust we carried out our mission to your satisfaction, My Lord?"

"Oh, quite," Voldemort murmured. He was twirling his wand in his fingers, a sure sign that he was in a good mood. "Very good, Lucius, excellent work. Are you proficient with reverse transfiguration spells?"

"I am," Malfoy answered, somehow managing to convey in those two words his injured pride at even being _asked_ such a question. 

Before beginning the spell, Voldemort sent the other three Death Eaters away (with stern instructions not to mention this little matter to anyone else, on the pain of … well … pain). Peter looked away as he and Lucius did the spell; not only did it bring back rather unpleasant memories of a certain evening in the Shrieking Shack, but he just didn't want to see James. _Not James, but just Potter_, he reminded himself. _I'm not his friend any more … I'm his enemy … and I'm powerful while he's a prisoner who could be killed at any moment. I needn't feel so frightened of what he'll think when he finds out what I did … what I'm doing now_.

A snort from Malfoy broke the room's silence. "Doesn't look too healthy, does he?" the cultured voice queried scornfully. "I suppose those are the robes he was buried in, too … good heavens, they're not even worthy of being called rags." 

"Thirteen-and-a-half years of being in a tomb will do unpleasant things to most garments," the Dark Lord agreed, sounding faintly amused. "No glasses, I see. Hmmm …"

"I can provide a pair," Malfoy suggested. 

"Excellent. Wormtail can tell you what type he used to have – try to acquire something similar."

"Yes, My Lord." 

"This clothing issue has suggested something to me. Rather than turning the man himself into a portkey, we should simply turn his robe into one. Much easier for us, much more difficult for the wards to identify and keep out, just as likely to work – as long as he doesn't decide to run around in Surrey naked."

Malfoy made a noise of agreement, then added, with just the right degree of hesitant deference, "Although … it has occurred to me, My Lord, that since the place is a Muggle neighborhood … we could, perhaps, provide him with Muggle garments. If he is wearing a robe, he might discard it in order not to surprise the Muggles, which would compromise the plan."

"A wise insight, Lucius," Voldemort murmured approvingly. Peter wondered, sulkily, what terrible curses the Dark Lord would have put on _him_ if he had dared to criticize, however deferentially, The Plan. Now that he was no longer dependent on Peter for his continued existence, as he had been at the Riddle manor, Voldemort was unlikely to deal with any "insubordination" with a mere tongue-lashing. 

"It will probably take the rest of the day to finish the necessary charms," the Dark Lord continued. "You can probably find a suitable 'Muggle' outfit in that extensive wardrobe of yours – fetch one here immediately, and then provide the glasses by … shall we say … ten o'clock this evening. Wormtail!" he added sharply, and Peter jerked his head up. "You may spend the intervening time going over your lines. If you bungle this job, Wormtail, you will wish I had turned you over to the Ministry to be given a Dementer's Kiss. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, My Lord," Peter whispered. "I s-s-swear I will be t-totally convincing – he w-w-won't suspect a thing, My Lord, I –"

"He had better not." Peter shut his mouth, gulping at the cold threat in his master's voice.

He really should _not_ bungle the job. 

* * * * *

James gradually became aware that he was warm, comfortable, and free from painful bruises – three very unusual conditions for him. His sleep-fuzzed mind went no further than this in its analysis of the situation, and he burrowed down into the satiny sheets, wondering sleepily where Lily was. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away, determined to maintain this feeling of cozy euphoria. The bed was soft and warm, he felt fine, he could even hear a fire crackling somewhere in the room. Nothing to worry about, no need to face the day. He rolled over, curling up, and felt the frames of his glasses push painfully into the side of his face.

Wait. 

His hand arrested itself in its journey up to twitch the offending lenses away from his face. He _never_ wore his glasses in bed … and what's more, he was fairly sure he didn't even _have_ glasses any more. There hadn't been any at the tomb … and with that thought, the past month-and-a-half came crashing back into his mind. 

He pulled the glasses off anyway, in order to roll over and bury his face in the pillow. Burying one's face in the pillow was always a good idea if one felt distinctly un-manly tears coming on. 

Once he had finished suppressing the wave of grief that always swept over him when he remembered that he was alone in the world, he took time to wonder why on earth he was human again. He had spent the past six or so weeks as a stag, wandering aimlessly in the forests by Godric's Hollow. The grass there wasn't the tastiest, but at least the forest had changed enough that every glade and every tree didn't bring back painful memories of nights spent "out with the boys," charging with reckless, joyful abandon through the woods with his three best friends at his side. 

Further wracking of his mind left him with no clue as to why he'd woken up in a bed (with glasses!) as a man rather than in a thicket or hollow as a bedraggled stag. 

"J-J-James?" 

He had his glasses back on his face within half a second of hearing the familiar voice. One frantic glance around the room revealed a short, light-haired, slightly overweight man standing at the bedside, gazing at him through small, beady black eyes.

Peter.

James let out a strangled yelp of joy and leapt from the bed, dragging half of the covers with him, to fling his arms around the smaller man. "Peter!" he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse, "you're _alive!_" 

Peter had stiffened and tried to back away, but at those words, he went suddenly limp. James transferred his grip to his friend's shoulders, pushing him away so that he could see his face. He was aware that he was grinning like an idiot, and that his eyes were filling up with tears behind his glasses. But he couldn't really bring himself to care. "You're alive," he repeated, unable to even believe it. "You're alive! I thought everyone was dead." 

Peter smiled shakily. He was probably close to tears himself, poor chap – Peter generally had trouble keeping from sniffling when he was happy or sad. "I-I-I-it's g-good to see you t-t-too, James," he stammered, making a convulsive movement with one of his gloved hands. 

James beamed – then abruptly stopped as he recollected why he had thought Peter was dead. "What happened, Wormtail?" he asked, his voice shaking. "What – what happened? Why did Voldemort – how could he get into our house?"

Peter had flinched at the name Voldemort, but now he took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself down. "Y-you'd better sit d-d-down for this, P-P-Prongs," he said gravely. James was happy enough to collapse back onto the bed – he really didn't feel well. 

Peter joined him cautiously on the edge of the bed before speaking. "Y-y-you know how w-we thought Remus might be the s-s-spy?"

All of the happiness drained out of James as he remembered. "Wasn't he, then?" he asked miserably, already feeling intolerable guilt at the thought that he might have misjudged Remus. "Were we wrong?"

Peter nodded shakily, looking very upset about the whole thing. "It w-wasn't Remus, James. It was – it – it was S-S-Sirius."

James gaped at him blankly for at least twenty seconds before his mind snapped back into gear. "_No!_" he shouted, leaping to his feet and nearly falling. "Not Sirius – it _couldn't _have been, couldn't, couldn't! He would _never_ follow Voldemort. Never! Not Sirius – not in a million centuries!"

"That's what you said when w-we told you it was R-Remus," Peter pointed out, looking even more upset. "H-He told Y-Y-You-Know-Who that I w-was the Secret Keeper, and … and …" Peter's beady eyes filled up with sudden tears, and James felt a horrible cold hand clutching at his heart. 

Peter _couldn't_ be right – he had to be mistaken.

Peter took a deep, quivering breath before finishing, "and told him where I was. They caught me and th-the Death Eaters – they g-g-gave me Veritaserum and t-tortured me – I'm not s-s-strong l-like you, James, I – I – oh, J-J-James, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry – it wasn't my fault, I never meant for it to happen, I'm sorry, sorry –"

He dissolved into hacking sobs, and James stood quite still on the rug before the bed, wishing he had stayed in that coffin and suffocated. Then he resisted the urge to grab Peter by the shoulders and shake him back and forth until his neck snapped. Instead, he forced himself to think about Peter – little Peter Pettigrew, the boy he'd met on the Hogwarts Express, the loyal, staunch friend who gamely struggled to overcome his stutter and get good marks even though he was an average wizard at best. Peter was right, after all – he really wasn't as strong as James and Remus and … Sirius. He wouldn't have been able to stand up to Voldemort and who-knows-how-many Death Eaters – it wasn't his fault. He'd probably been torturing himself with guilt for years.

"I forgive you, Peter," he heard himself say distantly. "It's – it's not your fault."

Peter kept sobbing for several minutes, and James tried to distract himself by looking around the room. "Is this your house, Peter?" he asked, not because he cared, but because he desperately wanted to stop thinking. 

Peter looked up, tears running down his pale face, and nodded.

James rounded on him suddenly. "Wait – that _can't_ be true. If Sirius was – was planning to turn us over to Voldemort, he would have been the Secret Keeper himself. You're wrong, Peter – it must not have been him. He –"

But Peter was shaking his head, looking sorrowful and grieved. "Y-y-you've forgotten how the Fidelius ch-charm worked, James," he said. "When it w-was performed, the Secret Keeper h-h-had to be l-l-loyal – if he was p-p-planning to b-betray the secret, it w-wouldn't have w-worked. S-so that's why Sirius suggested that you u-use me instead."

"I don't remember that," James protested feebly, fighting the horrid realization. His head was swimming, and he felt distinctly nauseous. "I don't remember ever being told that."

"Y-y-you've just f-forgotten," Peter said helpfully. He added, "You d-d-don't look so good, Prongs. You'd beter c-come sit down." 

James dropped onto the edge of the bed and cradled his head in his hands. "Sirius would never do something like that," he repeated dully.

Peter bounced to his feet, fairly steaming with sudden anger. "You've got to look the facts in the face, James!" he shouted shrilly. "J-J-Just because you've always t-t-trusted Sirius m-more than the rest of us doesn't m-m-mean it automatically excludes him from all s-s-s-s-suspicion! It's _his_ fault, all his fault! He should have let D-Dumbledore be the Secret-Keeper – then none of this would ever have happened!"

James brought up a hand and wiped helplessly at the tears in his eyes. "But – Sirius – he wouldn't, he just wouldn't," he croaked miserably. "It's got to be a mistake, Peter – I –"

"You'd rather keep believing it's Remus?" Peter demanded, his voice rising even higher. "You always just suspected Remus because he's a werewolf – you should have known that it could never be Remus! He didn't _ever_ join You-Know-Who – he _hated_ You-Know-Who – y-y-you only thought it was him b-because Sirius told you to! There was never a scrap of evidence showing R-Remus did anything – think, James, if Sirius was s-s-so blooming innocent, why was he so eager to make everybody think R-R-Remus was a t-t-traitor?"

James was shaking violently, still in denial, but he found himself grasping desperately at the one piece of good news in the whole cursed, hellish business. "Is Moony innocent, then?" he asked, his voice revealing more of his desperation and pain than he had intended it to.

"Yes, James," Peter said, his own voice shaking suddenly. 

"Where is he?" 

Peter stopped, looking away, and gulped. "I – well – I hate to tell you – he's … It's been fourteen years, James."

"Fourteen?" James repeated faintly. 

An old fact from a textbook in his Hogwarts days floated across his memory.

__

Few werewolves live more than ten years after receiving the bite, though there have been instances of lycanthropes surviving as many as thirty years … 

The textbook was notoriously faulty, but it still provided credence to the growing fear in his mind.

"He's d-d-dead, James," Peter finally whispered. "He died three years ago – the Ministry went out and … er … killed a whole lot of w-werewolves. I didn't find out till too late … I didn't get there in time…" His face screwed up and he bit back a sob. 

Numb now, James stared down at his hands. "What happened to Sirius, then?"

"He – er – they put him into Azkaban. He tried to k-k-kill me and Moony, and … well … the Ministry caught him." Peter took a deep breath, then resolutely plowed on, "However, he b-broke out of Azkaban last year … they haven't caught him yet … he's trying to kill Harry …"

"_Harry?_" James demanded, stiffening and seizing Peter's shoulder. "What about Harry?" 

"He's alive!" Peter squeaked, pulling away. The words tumbled out quickly. "He couldn't live with S-Sirius because – because Sirius was in Azkaban and I was really sick and they don't let werewolves take care of kids so they sent him to live with L-L-Lily's sister Petunia, the Dursleys, you know, and he lives at Number Four, Privet Drive, in Surrey, and he's fifteen years old now and he looks just like you, James, and he didn't die after all, and –"

"I need a wand," James said, distractedly. His head was spinning, his heart pounding as if he'd run a ten-mile race.

__

Harry is alive!

"J-Just wait a minute, James!" Peter cried, disentangling himself from James's grasp. "L-Look, wait a minute, and I'll – er – I'll get a portkey to take you down there. I d-d-don't have another wand. Just – wait a minute. H-h-have to g-go get it." He staggered quickly out of the room, and James stood up, quivering with excitement.

Peter was back in a flash, and grabbed James's arm. "Th-that outfit is f-f-fine for Muggle neighborhoods," he stammered, and James glanced down at himself in faint surprise. He was wearing a grey shirt made out of what was obviously _very_ expensive fabric, and khaki pants that … well … were probably in the same category as the shirt. Peter must be doing well financially.

"Come _on_," he begged. "Hurry up." 

Peter was fumbling with a box, unwrapping something with shaking hands. "R-r-remember, it's N-number Four, Privet Drive. Th-this portkey only works for one, and it doesn't take you r-right to the h-h-house, so you'll have to find it by y-y-yourself."

James nodded impatiently. "Hurry up. I've got to see him."

__

Harry's alive – I didn't kill him after all and he's alive and well and I can see him and everything will be all right after all – he's not dead! Hurry up, Wormtail, I need to see my son –

"Here." Peter shoved a marble toward James, who seized it instantly. He felt the familiar tug, and the room dissolved around him.

He wondered, one last time, why Peter had been wearing gloves.

__

END OF CHAPTER FOUR

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A/N: Don't worry – chapters 6 & 7 will consist almost *entirely* of explanations for all of the weird and implausible things mentioned thus far. :-)

Responses to reviewers:

PhoenixMage: Harry will be meeting James right away (although I guess you can probably tell from the chapter above.) It may take me a while to get the next installment done, though – it's going to be the most difficult chapter thus far. 

spangle star: I don't remember much about what I've read on the rate at which clothing decomposes, but I would think that fourteen years wouldn't quite be enough to rot cloth totally away (I mean, hey, look at Egyptian mummies …)

Kaydee: Thanks for the compliment! As regards your question, I think Harry may be a trifle too _busy_ in the coming year to spend much time noticing Ginny. As a matter of fact, they're both still pretty young to be getting seriously into romance … there may not be any real ships at all in this story, though I'm still working on the details for later chapters. (And I'm not necessarily an H/G fan myself … still trying to make up my mind.)

Blanket thanks: Wow – thank you all for reviewing. I'm *really* flattered by some of the comments that have been made – though, for the record, remarks that NHP is up to the same standard as _Prongs Rides Again_ or _Charmed Curses_ really are just flattery. :-) If anyone missed my suggestions to go and read those two peerless fanfics – well, go, now, and do so! They are wonderful!


	5. Number 4, Privet Drive

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Do you know what I think? I think fanfiction.net ought to make a blanket disclaimer for everything on their site … that would save us the trouble of having to say, "This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction using characters, places, and situations that belong to other people, such as JKR and er, some publishing companies. Or something." 

A/N: Charmed Curses has been temporarily discontinued! :-( I can't believe it … My life is ruined.

Apologies for the loooong time it's taken me to put this chapter up. It was tough to write, and I've been busy. In fact, I am going to continue to be insanely busy until mid-May, so updates will probably be rather sketchy until then.

Thanks to TheRedFeatheryPlug, PhoenixMage, Tarawen, Christa, Jeva, Xaiver, Jon'sSunshine + Rupert'sPrincess, Giesbrecht, soccergirl, Rose Fencer, spangle star, kaydee, Katie, Moonlight, Kay, Nicky, Luna Rose, livic88, thankssamigo, Storm Witch RD (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their comments on Chapter Four. I've spent many minutes sitting and studying them with a goofy grin on my face … reviews make me happy. And, oddly enough, that makes me able to go and write very non-happy conversations. 

As before, questions and comments are addressed down at the end of the chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER FIVE

__

"I think –" Harry swallowed, knowing how strange this was going to sound. "I think it was my dad."

Harry glanced up at Hermione and saw that her mouth was fully open now. She was gazing at him with a mixture of alarm and pity.

"Harry, your dad's -- well -- dead," she said quietly.

"I know that," said Harry quickly.

"You think you saw his ghost?"

"I don't know... no... he looked solid...."

"But then --"

"Maybe I was seeing things," said Harry. "But... from what I could see... it looked like him.... I've got photos of him...."

~ Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

* * *

Somewhere downstairs, that abominable cuckoo clock Aunt Marge had given Uncle Vernon for Christmas was striking two o'clock. 

Harry Potter rolled over in his bed for the forty-second time and tried, without success, to find a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress. He wished, for the thirty-seventh time in the past three hours, that he didn't have to use his cousin Dudley's old mattress and bed … the bed springs were shot and the mattress had immense depressions in it. In short, it was frightfully uncomfortable, and he was finding it _very_ difficult to sleep.

He finally gave up in disgust. Shoving the threadbare blanket away, he rose and padded over to the window. The moon outside was just beginning to wane. He found himself wondering how Professor Lupin was … and if Sirius was still with him. Really, he ought to write Sirius. It had been two weeks since he'd last written … but after getting his godfather's reply to the last letter he'd sent, he just hadn't felt like it. 

Probably he didn't have any right to be sulking like this just because he couldn't go over to Ron's house this summer – it was stupid anyway to be feeling so sorry for himself when Cedric was dead, Voldemort was back, and he would only be putting the Weasleys in danger if he went. But that time at the Weasleys's house was the closest thing to a family life that he'd ever had, and he had been desperately looking forward to it. The Dursleys were as bad as they had ever been … though Dudley had lost three pounds over the last school year. And Mrs. Weasley had said she'd thought Dumbledore would let him go! Why had the Headmaster changed his mind? 

He punched a fist into the windowframe, frustrated, then stalked back toward his bed. He would get some sleep, he thought with grim determination. Tub-shaped mattress or no, that bed would not defeat him. 

Two more minutes of tossing and turning convinced him that sleep was overrated anyway. He fished a book out from under his bed (he had managed to keep his school supplies with him), and settled down to read about the sport to end all sports … Quidditch.

Maybe it would keep his mind off of Cedric.

He had reached the seventh word of the first sentence of the fourth paragraph on the second page when someone rang the doorbell. Loudly. And repeatedly. And kept on ringing it, interspersing the pleasant music with erratic thumps on the door.

Harry rolled out of bed and grabbed for his wand. His first thought had been that the newspaper must have finally heard about his cousin's record-breaking weight – but his second thought was that the Death Eaters had finally caught up with him. Wrapping suddenly cold fingers around his wand, he crept to the door.

His aunt's hasty footsteps passed in the hall, then his uncle's heavier tread; he counted to ten before opening his door. Running into his irate relations was the last thing he wanted to do. 

Harry stole to the head of the stairs on silent bare feet, his heart pounding wildly. Downstairs, Petunia was complaining audibly that she couldn't see who it was. Harry silently went down the stairs, stopping once he could see the door. His aunt and uncle were huddled about it, their whispers now inaudible over the ringing of the bell. Then Aunt Petunia's voice rose in shrill anger. "We can't leave him out there – what will the neighbors say?!"

Uncle Vernon was cradling his shotgun. "Open the door, then," he growled. "If this is some sort of prank, they'll be sorry, that's all." Aunt Petunia fumbled with the lock for a moment, then jerked it open. Harry could almost _see_ the flames of rage dancing in her eyes.

"Whoever you are," Aunt Petunia half-shrieked, "how _dare_ you make a commotion at _our_ door at two o'clock in the morning?! Who –"

And then her words cut off in a high, protracted scream of pure terror, and she stumbled backward, eyes and mouth as wide as if it were the lord of hell himself at the door. Harry's heart turned to ice in his chest, and he became aware that his wand was shaking, quivering violently. 

"Petunia?" Uncle Vernon roared in astonishment as his wife cowered against a wall, her scream still ringing in the air.

"No – no – no – that's not possible!" she wailed, holding her arms protectively in front of her face. "_Vernon!_" 

Uncle Vernon raised the shotgun decisively and spun toward the dark figure in the doorway. A faint tinge of bewilderment crossed Harry's fear … the silhouette obviously was *not* wearing robes. "You there," Uncle Vernon rasped, "put your hands in the air and – and – and move back into the light." The shadow didn't move, but Uncle Vernon's eyes must have been growing more accustomed to the light, for he squinted suddenly, then scowled. He lowered his shotgun and took an angry step forward, beginning to turn purple with fury. "Harry!" he snarled, the word sounding like a curse. 

Up on the stairs, Harry blinked in bewilderment. What had he done _now_?

Uncle Vernon was bellowing with fury now. "What kind of a stupid game is this?! How did you get outside!? Get in here this minute, young man – you are in deep trouble! How _dare_ you pull a prank like this? That does it – you are not going back to that stupid school _ever again_ –"

Heavy footsteps shook the hall, and Harry spun around to see Dudley gazing quizzically down at him from the top of the stairs. Dudley blinked, rubbed a porky hand across his eyes, and winced as his father struck a particularly loud note in his tirade. Evidently annoyed at being awoken, he filled his lungs and shouted, "Daaaad! Harry's up _here_! Who are you yelling at?" 

For perhaps ten seconds, there was utter silence. Then Uncle Vernon wrenched himself out of his frozen stillness and raised the shotgun again. "Y-y-y-you're one of th-th-them, aren't y-you?" he stammered, his face fading from purple to an unattractive green. "G-get away from my house! NOW!"

The figure took a step forward; Uncle Vernon dropped the shotgun, spun around, grabbed Aunt Petunia's arm, jerked her into the kitchen, and slammed the door. Dudley, showing a glimmer of intelligence of which no-one could ever have suspected him, thundered back down the hall and vanished into his own room. Crashing noises a moment later suggested that he was barricading it with old computers. Harry remained frozen on the stairs, wondering vaguely if hiding would do any good. 

Downstairs, the visitor walked inside and closed the door behind him. Then he turned toward the light, looking up at the stairs, and Harry felt his knees go weak. Only a hasty grab at the banister saved him from crashing down the stairs. The world seemed to slow around him – his very breathing ceased – as he stared down, frozen. 

A tall, thin man.

Untidy black hair.

Glasses. 

A face incredibly similar to Harry's own.

James Potter.

"Harry?" the man whispered, and put a foot on the lowest step.

"No," Harry rasped, trying to back away and nearly falling again. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Was this another of his nightmares – a delusion brought on by overwork, stress, and lack of food? Surely the figure below him, so like to the photos of his father, was a mere figment of an overwrought imagination … 

Or worse.

His thoughts suddenly snapped back into gear, time resumed its normal flow, and he jerked his wand up, pointing it straight at his – at that man. A clear, terrible certainly had sprung into his mind: this was a Death Eater, disguised in this way to trick him, defeat him and capture him – a horrible mockery of his deepest longings, intended to deliver him to his worst enemy. He neither knew nor cared how a Death Eater had disguised himself as a wizard who had been dead for fourteen years – his furious rage at seeing his adored, dead father _degraded_ in this way even overpowered his fear. 

"Stay where you are!" he shouted. 

The man – the _Death Eater_ – stopped short, one hand resting on the banister. The distance between them was short enough that Harry could clearly make out the man's features, identical to those he had studied wistfully in his cherished photo album. The grey eyes behind the spectacles – which were _not_ identical to James Potter's trademark glasses – were wide with shock … and with some other emotion that Harry could not read. "Harry," he whispered, and Harry's chest constricted painfully. 

The momentary weakness was overwhelmed by another flood of fury. "Put your wand on the floor, Death Eater," he spat, steadying his own wand and readying for a hex. "Now!" 

The Death Eater stared up at him, shock overtaking the other expressions on his face. "What?" 

"You heard me!" Harry half screamed, driven nearly to hysteria by his warring emotions. "Put your wand down and surrender!"

"Harry – Harry, I'm your father!" The grey eyes now held a dawning fear, mixed with an almost bewildered plea. "I'm not dead – I'm not a Death Eater."

The imposter's claim fanned Harry's anger to new, white-hot temperatures. "How _dare_ you?" he snarled, his hand beginning to shake. "How _DARE_ you?! I ought to use the Killing Curse on you, you filthy – evil – _lying_ – scum! How _dare_ you walk in here and claim to be my father?! Put your wand down NOW!" 

"I don't have a wand," the Death Eater said quietly, and he held his hands out to the side, turning up empty palms. "I haven't got one. And I'm not lying," he added, almost numbly. 

"Sure you aren't," Harry answered, taking a step down, "and Voldemort's going to reform and turn himself in to the Ministry, and Fudge is really a great Minister, and Malfoy is a really nice guy once you get to know him, and Professor McGonagall is secretly passionately in love with Lockhart, and Fred's going to be Head Boy, and Professor Snape's going to invent a cure for werewolfism for Professor Lupin, and my relatives think magic is the greatest thing since sliced bread." He laughed wildly. "Anything else you'd like to say?"

"Harry –"

"Sorry, not real convincing." Harry was wondering now if there were more of them waiting outside – should he stun the Death Eater, run back to his room, grab his broomstick, and take off for Hogwarts? 

"Harry!" The Death Eater sounded almost desperate now, and he moved forward suddenly.

"_Don't move_!" Harry screamed. "Or I'll _kill_ you, I swear I will!"

The imposter stopped, and stood quite still on the second step, hands still held out from his sides. He suddenly looked uncertain. "I _am_ James Potter," he said, almost as if he was trying to convinced himself. "You – you are Harry, aren't you?" he asked, now sounding lost. "Harry Potter?"

"Yeah, that's right, I'm the famous Harry Potter. And guess what, I'm not an idiot, no matter what the _Daily Prophet_ says. I'm not stupid enough to fall for that trick. Now – now you take off whatever charm is letting you impersonate my father, or I'm going to stun you and get a bunch of Aurors in here, and then – and then you'll be sorry," he finished, his breath hitching in his throat. 

For perhaps two minutes, there was utter silence on the stairs of the Dursleys' house. Even Aunt Petunia's gasping cries from behind the kitchen door had faded away. The cuckoo clock struck a quarter past two, and Harry still had not decided what to do. He was transfixed again, staring at the phantom below. He couldn't bear to end the delusion quite yet … that filthy Death Eater _did_ look just like his father, and … and … well, he wanted to look at him. He wanted to see his father, not as a picture, not as a smoky echo out of Voldemort's wand …

"What do you _mean_ my father's not dead?" he snapped, breaking the silence. "I saw him come out of Voldemort's wand!"

But his fath – the Death Eater obviously hadn't heard him. He was staring at him with a bewildered, searching gaze. "Professor Lupin?" he said slowly, and for a moment Harry wondered if the man was a lunatic. Then he recollected his wild rant, and knitted his brows in confusion.

"What about him?" he demanded fiercely.

__

'Why don't you just hex him already?' growled an annoying little voice in his mind that sounded rather like Hermione. _'You're taking an awful risk, standing here bandying words about with him.'_

"Remus?" the Death Eater continued hesitantly, his face reflecting the confusion that Harry now felt. What did this Death Eater know? Was he really off of his rocker, or was he just trying to persuade Harry that he was a confused-and-really-lost-but-back-from-the-dead James Potter, Remus Lupin's long-lost friend. "But … but isn't he …"

"A werewolf?" Harry growled. "Yeah. If you think you can persuade me you're my dad by knowing _that_, think again. The whole wizarding world knows that."

"But isn't he – isn't he dead?" the pseudo-Potter asked.

Harry blinked in confusion, thoughts of hexing the Death Eater momentarily slipping from his mind. Was Professor Lupin dead? Had somebody neglected to tell him something? But – no! He pushed the painful thought away firmly. Sirius had said Lupin was alive and well less than two weeks ago. 

"No," he finally answered, and became further bewildered by the utter confusion on the Death Eater's face.

"He's alive?"

"That would be the logical conclusion from him not being dead, yeah," Harry snapped savagely. "Which brings us back to you – my dad's _dead_, and if you don't stop pretending to be him _right now_, I'm going to – to – to do something really awful!" 

"Moony's alive?" the Death Eater whispered, hope springing onto his face. It faded into prompt bafflement. "But Peter said –"

An odd, cold lethargy seemed to wrap itself around Harry. There was something pounding on the door of his mind, trying to get in. Everything was going too fast, much too fast, and none of it made sense. There was an odd ringing in his ears, and he forgot about the wand in his hand, staring through wide eyes at the man on the steps below him.

Too much information. 

Moony. A nickname for a Marauder. Would a Death Eater know it?

Peter. Peter Pettigrew. The rat. The traitor. What did he have to do with this? Any Death Eater would know that Harry knew that Peter was a Death Eater. Why would a Death Eater posing as James Potter mention Wormtail?

Whyever would a Death Eater posing as James Potter pretend to think Lupin was dead, anyway? 

His mind struggled – struggled against vast, infinite obstacles – to wrap itself around the possibility that it might not be a Death Eater. 

No.

He wanted to believe that too much. It could not be true, it could _never_ be true. James Potter was dead, and whoever this was – _what_ever this was – it was not his father. 

__

If wishes were horses, beggars could ride.

"I don't know who you are," he heard himself say, as if from a great distance, "and I don't know what you want, but you're not my father. And I want you to leave. Now. Please." 

The man's eyes widened behind the unfamiliar glasses, all color draining from his face. Professor Lupin was apparently forgotten, as the man stared pleadingly up at him. "Harry – I _am_ your dad. I didn't die – it was a curse – he didn't kill me – I don't even know why I'm back, but I am, and I – please, Harry, you have to believe me!"

"I don't want to hear it," Harry rasped. He was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. "I don't want to hear it, and I don't believe you anyway. You're trying to trick me – why wouldn't Voldemort kill you? Answer me _that_!" 

He hadn't thought it possible for the thin man's face to get any paler, but it was now a sickly grey. For several long seconds, he didn't answer. "I can't," he finally said softly. "I can't tell you that. But there is a reason." Then his face shadowed over in further puzzlement. "Harry – why are _you_ alive?"

This was just too crazy. Harry turned on his heel, hardly caring if the Death Eater hexed his back, and walked back down the hall to his bedroom.

Not until he had reached his room and slammed the door behind him did he hear other feet climbing the stairs, slowly and reluctantly. He stood stiffly, facing the barred window. Should he blast it out of the wall and just leave, leave this whole horrid, unreal situation behind him? 

"Harry?"

There he was again, right on the other side of the door, rapping against it with his knuckles, calling in that voice that sounded so much like the voice Harry heard when a Dementer came near.

"Harry, _please_," the voice begged desperately, sounding genuinely heart-broken. "_I am James Potter_ – I don't know what I can say to convince you I'm not lying. I don't know anything about this at all – I've been completely cut off from the world for years – I thought you were dead all this time – I've been telling the truth, Harry!"

What if it was true? Harry stood quite still, his back to the door, balanced between two terrible alternatives. He could refuse to listen – and then what if this man really was his father? Or, he could believe what he wanted so badly to believe … and if the man was a Death Eater, Voldemort would win. 

"I'll leave if you want me to," the man continued wretchedly. "I – I know it must be hard for you to believe me, but I really am your dad." He paused, and his next words came out sounding strangled. "Good-bye for now, then. I'll be at Peter's house – you can contact me there if you … if you change your mind."

Peter's house?

The footsteps slowly began to move back down the hall, and the whole uncertain mess suddenly crystallized. Decision made, Harry spun around and leapt for the door. "Wait!" he cried, wrenching it open. The man stopped in the hall and turned, desperate hope lighting his face. One long step brought Harry to his side, and he grabbed the man's arm. "_Wait_ – Peter's a –"

And then the horrible jerk of a portkey wrenched at him, his wand tumbled out of his loose grasp, the upstairs hall of the Dursley's house dissolved into a kaleidoscope of color and wind, the visitor's arm twisted under his hand as they were sucked forward together, and suddenly he was collapsing onto a cold cement floor, his hand sliding away from the slick grey sleeve it had been clutching. Beside him, the man struggled to his knees, his face twisted in horrified surprise. 

Footsteps, measured and calm.

Black robes, only a few feet away from his face.

Harry looked up slowly, and met a pair of slitted red eyes.

"Harry Potter. We meet yet again." 

__

END OF CHAPTER FIVE

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Responses:

Tarawen: I'm really flattered that you're psychoanalyzing this story so much. :-) I must admit that Peter's character intrigues me – I have to fight the urge to write thousands of words explaining why he acts the way he does, and what he feels as he does so. I think you're right: he does feel extremely guilty about the whole thing, and his tears were genuine. In fact, you phrased it better than I could! Reviews like that really make my day. Eep! I just realized I've been spelling your name as "Taracollowen" … argh! Sorry about that … I'm just … stupid. Yes, that's an excellent explanation.

Jeva: Yes! That's _exactly_ why he was wearing gloves – well spotted, and thank you.

kaydee: Yeah, I noticed that … in fact, it was one of the things that prompted me to think something bizarre might have happened with James that night. (In reality, I suppose J.K.R. probably just made a small mistake … er … don't get mad at me, anyone … but hey, we can imagine, can't we?) I'll be having a semi-explanation for that later.

Katie: Really? Well, thank you – I didn't know that. I was going by a timeline I saw somewhere … I think.

Luna Rose: An idiot?! Poor James … everyone seems to think he ought to automatically know that Peter is lying to him … Peter is one of his three best friends, after all, so James would logically trust him unless someone gave him a good reason not to. Besides, James is still more than a trifle unhinged by what happened to him – more about that later. 

Storm Witch RD: Thanks! I'm really thrilled that you like this since I absolutely love YOUR stories. :^) Wow … what compliments. I often have trouble with characterizations, so I'm delighted you like them. Oddly, I find Lucius easier to write than … say … Crabbe & Goyle. Maybe it's because I feel like Crabbe and Goyle *ought* to have hidden depths, but they're hidden so well that they shouldn't really show up anyway … urgh. I'm something of a "family" person, as my creation of an extended family for Neville Longbottom probably shows (insert nervous laughter here), which is part of the reason why I decided to write this. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on what you like to read), I prefer to write about dysfunctional families … so this isn't going to be a way-too-happy-ending. I'm on your Favorite Authors List?! Wow … Storm Witch RD, the Green Eyed Lady, put me on her list … speaking of which, when will you be updating your stories? :-)


	6. Nightmare

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: The Potterverse and all things relating thereto are the property of J.K.R. and sundry publishing corporations. I am merely borrowing them, and I promise to return them alive or intact. Or possibly both.

A/N: This chapter reveals Dark Secret #1, in case you were wondering. It's a VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, and ought to be read fairly carefully if later chapters are to make sense. Remember: if you like this chapter, hate this chapter, or have constructive criticism on this chapter, please review.

Thanks to Xaiver, Kate, spangle star, vmr, Phoenix, Nicky, MidnightDragon, Chrysta, Weasleyfreak, Gaby, Snufflescutie, Kaydee, livic88, tsuki tatsu, Jeva, thankssamigo, TheRedFeatheryPlug, Ice, Luna Rose, Fortar (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their reviews. As before, questions and comments are addressed down at the end of the chapter. Not *everyone's* questions/comments – I only have a limited amount of time, and if it comes to thanking everybody individually or working on the story, well … 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER SIX

__

"Professor," he started again after a moment. "The Sorting Hat told me I'd – I'd have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin's heir for a while ... because I can speak Parseltongue ...."

"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry," said Dumbledore calmly, "because Lord Voldemort -- who is the last remaining descendent of Salazar Slytherin -- can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I'm sure ...."

~ Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_

* * * 

__

"So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that's a powerful countercharm. I can see now ... there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself We even look something alike ... but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That's all I wanted to know."

~ Tom Riddle in _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_

* * *

__

Voldemort.

Harry reeled backward, rolling awkwardly across the cold floor. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling frantically for his wand before recollecting, with an icy stab of panic, that he had dropped it. For a moment, he could have wept with frustration – here he was, utterly and completely defenseless, without a doubt about to die, and it was all because he had been a stupid idiot and … and … 

And _what?_

He tore his eyes away from Voldemort's inhuman face to look at the man … the man who, for one brief moment, he had really thought was his father. Was he actually a Death Eater? What other explanation for this _disaster_ could there possibly be? The realization hurt, and he bit down on his lip, hoping vaguely that the physical pain could distract him from the infinitely more severe emotional pain. No way was he going to break down in front of Voldemort – who was probably laughing at him. Laughing at fooling Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Grew-Up-to-Be-Really-Gullible. 

Anger blunted the edge of the pain and he turned back toward Voldemort, breathing hard. "Yeah, I guess we do meet yet again." Wildly, he searched his mind for something really cutting to say – perhaps something Professor Snape would have said in the same situation – but could only come up with, "You must really have an inferiority complex, you know, to think a fifteen-year-old boy is such a threat." He paused, then added for good measure, "And did I mention that I think you're hideously ugly?"

__

If I'm going to die, he thought bitterly, _I might as well die like my father probably did – Voldemort said HE wasn't afraid_ … He kept his eyes on Voldemort, yet remained very aware of the Death Eater in his peripheral vision – the man was currently scrambling to his feet, staggering a bit. 

Voldemort evidently didn't appreciate Harry's effort to show his lack of fear. His eyes narrowed angrily, and he raised his wand. "Insolent brat," he hissed, and Harry straightened his shoulders and set his jaw, ready to die like a man.

Then the Death Eater stepped in front of him, right into the line of fire. Voldemort lowered the wand slightly, and the look of anger faded into a mixture of irritation and cruel amusement. "Get out of the way," he said softly. "I am merely going to teach your son a lesson – not kill him."

__

Son? But – wait – isn't he going to gloat now about tricking me? This is supposed to be the part where he laughs and tells me what an idiot I am. But he said … This is mad. What does he mean, he's not going to kill me? 

Harry caught his lip between his teeth and bit down again, this time in an effort to verify that this was real life and not a bizarre, skewed nightmare.

"Leave him alone." The man's voice was firm and clear, and it had not yet, as Harry feared, changed in tone and quality to become the jeering voice of a Death Eater. "Let him go. He's just a kid."

Voldemort lowered his wand the rest of the way, raising thin eyebrows in disbelief. "Let him go? Let him _go?_ Ah …" Understanding curved his thin mouth into a smile. "You don't know. Didn't have much time for reminiscing in your happy little family reunion, hmm? Didn't even bother to ask little Harry why he was still alive?" His voice hardened. "Harry here is one of the three greatest threats that I face."

The man's posture shifted defensively, his breathing quickening. "You'll have to kill me first if you want to get at him." 

"Oh, no, James. I have no intention of killing either of you." Harry wondered, briefly, if one could pass out from an overload of surprise. Now he had no idea whatsoever to think. _James? Your son? The Death Eater – protecting me? Voldemort, not planning to kill me? Is this all an elaborate trick, or am I going crazy? Or is HE going crazy … ?_

In front of him, the set of the man's shoulders suggested wary confusion. "But you said –"

"Oh, I know what I said. But you see, James, that was fourteen years ago. Things have changed." 

"I know." The man's voice trembled briefly, then strengthened. "Something happened to you. I thought you were dead."

For a moment, Voldemort's red eyes flashed with anger and … something else. "I apologize for disappointing you," he said smoothly. "But, as you can see, I am very much alive."

"I don't really see how someone as soulless as you can be called _alive_," the man retorted, "and if so, you certainly don't have much of a life. You look even sicker than you did fourteen years ago."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Harry finally found his voice. Much to his embarrassment, it cracked from stress as he spoke. "What are you going on about? Are you saying this really is my – my –"

T man half-turned, the pale light glinting off of his glasses and hiding his eyes; Voldemort turned to study Harry curiously. Then he looked back at the man, then back at Harry, then he laughed softly, incredulously. "Are you saying, Harry Potter, that you do not believe this is your father?" Harry could not answer, and Voldemort went on. "No happy father-son reunion after all? How, then, did you get here? I had envisioned you flinging your arms about him in a transport of delight, thereby activating the portkey …" He tilted his head sideways, smiling cruelly. "Well, well, it looks as if this explanation will take up more of my time than I had thought."

"Portkey?" the man whispered, paling visibly. "How – how –"

"Sit down, both of you," Voldemort ordered, waving a hand toward a couch at the back of the room. It looked oddly out of place in the otherwise-empty room. Harry hesitated, then backed toward the couch, unwilling to turn his back on his enemy. The man remained standing, halfway between Voldemort and Harry, until Harry had settled himself cautiously on the dark blue fabric of the seat. "_Sit down_," Voldemort repeated, bending a cold glare on the man. The man paused, glancing between Harry and the Dark Lord, then spun and walked quickly to the couch. As he sat down, Harry shrank away, unwilling to come into contact with him again. He stole a sideways glance at the familiar profile, a sharp pain knifing through his stomach.

Was it really his father?

"Let me see," Voldemort mused, studying them both. "Where should I begin?" He flourished his wand briefly, and a dark oaken chair – rather throne-like, unsurprisingly – flickered into existence. Calmly, Voldemort seated himself, smiling slightly. "Hmmm – I believe I will start by assuring you, Harry, that this actually is James Potter."

"Sorry," Harry snapped, "but I don't believe you. I wouldn't believe you even if you said something obviously _true_ – like – I dunno – 'Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard there is.' Or maybe, 'I'm a ruddy prat and I –'" 

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed, and snapped his fingers. Harry felt an odd, numbing sensation in his throat, and realized that it was a silencing charm. Furious, he clamped his mouth shut and glared at the Dark Lord, trying to ignore the fear crawling across his skin.

"I see that I will have to start at the beginning," Voldemort murmured, sounding resigned. The man made a sudden movement on his end of the couch, then sat still again. Voldemort smiled darkly at him, then leaned back, absently twirling his wand between his fingers – much the way Tom Riddle had in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry remembered. He longed to say something sarcastic, but, for obvious reasons, had to remain silent.

"I believe that you are already somewhat familiar with my early history, Harry. I will begin after I left Hogwarts. For ten years, I traveled abroad, learning much related to the Dark Arts, meeting powerful wizards – the very worst of the magical world, Dumbledore would probably say. However, my funds were limited. I came back to England to explore my options there – but gaining allies among wizard-kind required money. So I married a pureblood witch from an old and wealthy wizard family. They were happy enough to ally themselves with the heir of Salazar Slytherin. Alas, they have since died out … a great pity, for they were one of the foremost families in years gone by. I remained in England for four years, learning much of the political situation, gaining sympathy from purebloods and others who wished to see our kind restored to their former glory. At the end of that time, I returned to the continent, for there was still much left for me to learn. I left behind me a wife and child."

"No!" The man (_James Potter?_) surged to his feet, wild desperation in his voice. "You can't tell him that!"

"Can't I?" Voldemort asked softly.

"You promised. You swore an oath – you _promised_ my friends and family wouldn't be told!" Harry stared alternately between them, bewildered, frightened, and very annoyed that he could not speak.

"Things have changed," Voldemort said dismissively. "Would you rather I _kept_ my oaths and killed your son here and now?"

The man flinched as if struck. "Do what you like with _me_, but let him go. Please."

"You are in no position to make demands. Sit down and shut up." Voldemort flicked his wand; the man ducked with surprising speed. Harry leapt up, wildly wondering if he could make a break for it while Voldemort was distracted. He had a strong feeling that he did _not_ want to hear whatever it was that the Dark Lord had to say – and if he didn't get away fast, he couldn't help hearing it.

Voldemort actually _snarled_. His next hex sent both of them slamming back onto the couch with enough force to leave them dizzy and disoriented for several seconds. Then he flicked his wand again, and black cords sprang into existence, wriggling around Harry like snakes, binding him motionless.

"Sit still, both of you," Voldemort hissed. He cast a venomous glare at Harry, then turned a warning look at the bespectacled man, who was tensed up on his end of the couch, breathing hard. "My wife," he continued slowly, "left me about a year after I left England. Apparently she was beginning to disapprove of me. It might have had something to do with my eyes … she was a trifle upset when they turned red." He smiled slightly, those same eyes flickering away from Harry for an instant to study the other occupant of the couch. "I used to have grey eyes," he added lightly. Harry felt the man beside him twitch violently. 

"She took my two-year-old son and went to live in the Muggle world, changing her last name … to throw me off of their scent, I suppose. She need not have bothered – I was not even looking for them at the time. I did not, in fact, even think of them for the next several years – not until I met an witch in Transylvania – a witch gifted in divination." He paused for an instant; the man _(my dad?)_ was breathing raggedly, obviously disturbed by the Dark Lord's words. "She prophesied," he murmured, "that the heir of Slytherin could never be overthrown unless the ancient blood of Salazar Slytherin was further diluted by the tainted blood of Muggles – not quite phrased like that, but I was glad my wife had been fully pureblooded. She also told me," he added, eyes gleaming, "that once the line ran pure again, the Heir and his House would be invincible."

Here, he was interrupted. "You do realize," the man-who-was-supposed-to-be-James-Potter snapped, "that she was an utter fraud who thought you were good-looking and powerful and wanted to convince you to marry _her_ because _she_ was pureblooded, don't you? Or are you really gullible enough to believe a batty prophecy like that?" 

Voldemort's eyes fairly flamed with rage. "Crucio!" he spat, leveling his wand at the man. Harry jerked away as the man beside him gasped and stiffened, eyes dilating with pain. For a long moment, there was silence, then a groan of pain broke out from him. Voldemort ended the curse, and said softly, "Be quiet, or I will do something worse to you."

The man was gasping for breath, and did not answer.

Voldemort looked back at Harry, who had decided this was all a nightmare brought on by eating spoiled chicken the night before. "So," he continued, dropping back into a cold, emotionless tone, "when I returned to England, I set someone to the task of finding my wife and son. Being an incompetent fool, he did not discover them until after I had begun the war. In fact, he did not find them until my wife was already dead – she had never been particularly healthy – and my son had graduated from Hogwarts – quite unaware of his heritage, as far as I know. He had been Head Boy, as I was … but, unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the battle – the losing side. And, even worse, he had married a mudblood." 

The man beside Harry snarled indistinctly, and Harry looked sideways at him, a sudden horrible suspicion seizing his mind. Did Voldemort mean … no. That was crazy, utterly and completely crazy. Impossible.

"In fact," Voldemort said softly, eyes flickering between the two wizards on the couch, "she was soon to have a child – a child who would be tainted by her Muggle blood. Obviously, this was quite unacceptable. I decided that the infant had to be eliminated, the woman gotten rid of, and my son 'convinced' to fight for me rather than against me. I spoke to him, but, even after learning the truth, he proved oddly opposed to my suggestions. I let him have a year to think the matter over – quite generous of me, really. In the meantime," he added with a dark smile, "I convinced one of his closest friends to serve me, and began working on isolating my son from his other companions." 

The man moaned softly, and buried his face in his hands. Harry was barely breathing, staring at Voldemort with terrified eyes. 

"When the year was up, my very foolish son refused to give up the child and the woman. I had to take drastic measures – he was becoming a troublesome opponent, and a rather well-known ally of my greatest foe, Dumbledore. It seemed that neutralizing him after I killed the infant might be wise. So … when one of his friends became his family's secret-keeper, my spy … hmm … _assisted_ me in discovering their location."

Harry stifled his rising panic, struggling against the cords around him. This was all nonsense – he didn't have to listen to it. He _couldn't_ listen to it. Again, he tried to speak, but only a muffled whine emerged from his muted throat. 

"My son, like a chivalrous Gryffindor fool, attempted to delay me while his wife and child escaped. Having foreseen the possibility, I had altered the wards on the house to prevent anyone from leaving, so I had ample time to deal with the whole family. Instead of killing my son, however, I cast a complicated spell that I had learned from a warlock in Bavaria – a spell that sends the victim's body into a stasis greatly resembling death, while throwing his mind into, shall we say, a 'netherworld' – a very unpleasant place." For a moment, his eyes darkened with memories. "The caster retains the power to bring the victim back – their lives are strongly linked. You are probably wondering why I didn't just use _Avada Kedavra_. It would have been simpler, of course, but I only wanted my son out of the way for a few years, not dead. Keeping him prisoner would have been far too much trouble … and, of course, by making it appear that he was dead, I hoped to damage the general public morale. After a few years of uninterrupted thought, I assumed that he would come to his senses and agree to serve me."

"I completed the spell easily enough, but when I went to kill the child, I ran into complications. The mother refused to get out of my way. I had not intended to kill her, but she made it unavoidable. When I cast the killing curse on the child …" Again, he stopped, and smiled maliciously at Harry. "You know what happened next, don't you, Harry?" 

"What?" the man beside Harry demanded, his voice sounding choked. "What happened?"

"The spell rebounded and hit me," Voldemort murmured. "Fortunately, some of my experimental efforts at defeating death took effect – and, I believe, the link with my son helped prevent my mind from being lost. But I was without a body until … oh, until just about two months ago, don't you think?"

Harry shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"It seems," Voldemort added lightly, "that my return triggered the linking spell I had cast, and returned my son to _his_ body. Apparently," he said sourly, "he had remained in excellent shape – although waking up in a coffin beside his dead and rotting wife can hardly have been fun … can it, James?"

"You _bastard_," the man whispered brokenly, hands curling into fists.

Voldemort ignored him. "Probably I should have expected something of the kind, but I assumed that he had died when I … ceased to live. It was rather a surprise to me when I read in the _Daily Prophet_ that something odd had occurred at the cemetery. However, it gave me a chance I had been looking for … a chance to get at the boy who had escaped me and _humiliated_ me once again. Turning a garment into a portkey is simple enough – setting it to be activated only when someone _not_ wearing it touches it is somewhat more difficult. You can probably figure out the rest yourself, Harry."

"Now that we have laid out the necessary background information, let us deal with more important matters. I suppose, though, that it would be courteous to give you a chance to ask questions." He flicked his wand, and Harry could feel his throat again.

For a moment, he could not even speak. There were too many questions clamoring to be asked for him to single out one – and what finally came out of his mouth was not even a question he had intended to ask at all. "Are you saying that I am your – your – your _grandson?_" he whispered. 

The man beside him opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort snapped his fingers again, silencing him. "Yes, Harry," he said slowly, as if to a very dense child. "That is what I am saying. Why do you think you are a Parselmouth? Did Dumbledore tell you it was a simple coincidence?" 

Harry shook his head wordlessly, mind gone blank from the enormity of the horror facing him. 

"Well, now that we've straightened that out," Voldemort continued calmly, "let us discuss the terms of your release."

"Release?" Harry repeated faintly.

__

The world has gone mad.

"I have decided to halt my effort to eliminate you, Harry," Voldemort said kindly. "It's rather a pain – besides which, it may not even be necessary. As long as you don't continue to befriend mudbloods – and fall in love with them, according to the _Daily Prophet_ – I see no particular reason why I should assume that you are the threat referred to in the prophecy. In fact, if you agree to wed a pureblooded witch once you are of age, and further agree to stop opposing me, I see no reason why I should not let you return to Hogwarts and live … normally … for the time being." He paused for a moment, then added, "Your father can go back with you, provided he agrees not to antagonize me."

Harry gaped at him. This was beyond mad. This was beyond insane. This was even beyond ludicrous. He wanted to laugh, but couldn't quite muster up the energy to do it. 

"Probably you'll wish for some time to think about this – you appear to be in shock at the moment." Voldemort rose and banished the chair with a wave of his wand, then performed the countercurse on the muting charm and on the binding hex. "Consider my offer carefully, Harry. It may mean much to you, your family, and your friends. Do not anger me." On that warning note, he spun with a rustle of robes, and vanished out the door.

It swung shut behind him with a hollow _thump_, and Harry turned slowly to face his father.

__

END OF CHAPTER SIX

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Responses:

Xaiver: Thank you! I think it was James's _shirt_ that was actually enchanted – as mentioned in the chapter above, the whole thing involved a complicated charm to prevent James himself from setting the thing off. My opinion is that making a person into a portkey is probably incredibly difficult and rather dangerous – hence the reason why Voldemort decided to settle on turning a piece of clothing into a portkey. I don't think he considered the possibility that James might, say, bump into a Muggle on the way to Harry's house, though. That would have spoiled his plan quite thoroughly. :^)

Katie & spangle star: Yup! I'm also of the opinion that Harry & company would not be real quick to believe that James was James. After all, even in the wizarding world, having someone "come back from the dead" must be a rare occurrence. That's one of the nice things about _Prongs Rides Again_ … very believable response from Harry. 

Nicky: How are they going to get out of the predicament? Hmmm … that would be telling. The predicament's slightly worse now, of course, but all will be revealed! Hopefully before Chapter Thirty …

Kaydee: A mistake? Oh, well … Glad you liked the chapter! The pronunciation of Sirius … I fancy it is Seer-ee-us, because, as far as I know, the Dog Star was given a Latin name, and in Latin, the –ius ending was pronounced 'ee-us.' I think. Anyway, I'd guess that Sirius was actually named after the star (given his animagus form), and his name would, therefore, be pronounced like the star's name. But you're right – I guess we'll find out later. (I haven't seen HP & the Philosopher's Stone – did they cut out Hagrid saying 'Sirius Black' lent him the motorcycle? If they did – shame on them! Perfectly good piece of foreshadowing gone to waste.)

Jeva: Yes, that's right, one BIG happy family! ;^) So … did this chapter verify your idea? Judging from your review, I'd say that you figured it out – congratulations! I'm not sure how many other people picked up on the clues, so extra double-congratulations for apparently being the only one. ^.^ Just so you know, you're now an officially Greatly Valued Reviewer, and I will be heart-broken if you don't respond after every chapter. 

thankssamigo: Well, Harry didn't necessarily _mean_ what he said … he was really distraught, and attempting to scare the 'Death Eater' away. I'm quite certain he wouldn't really have killed even a real Death Eater (Voldemort would have been another matter, though), but I don't think t_hreatening_ it would be beyond him. 

TheRedFeatheryPlug: Um, that would be telling. :-) As you can see, I did continue soon!

Ice: I'm delighted you enjoy my story, but … _Charmed Curses_ doesn't stink! It's a great story, really – give it a chance! 


	7. More Than Any Other

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Much to my surprise, Harry Potter _still _doesn't belong to me. When is J.K.R. going to get a move on it and sell me the Potterverse?!

A/N: This chapter may seem a trifle slow, but it's necessary. Hope you lot like it anyway – let me know what you think! It's pretty long – but it may have to tide you over for as much as two weeks, since I'm coming up to exam-time. 

Thanks to Jedi Cosmos, anime girl, Kitana, TheNovice, Nicky, Rose Fencer, Luna Rose, Giesbrecht, Tarawen, Jeva, Vanessa, Shadow Chaser, tsuki tatsu, Aurora Wolf, Charlie, Sailor Hylia, Phoenix, Prongs, Xaiver, TheRedFeatheryPlug, tolkienite, spangle star, Eva Phoenix Potter, kaydee, Renai, Padfoot's Heir (and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked) for their reviews. 

As always, responses to questions and comments are down at the end of the chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER SEVEN

__

And now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemort's wand . . . and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be ... he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand . . . knew, because the man appearing was the one he'd thought of more than any other tonight . . .

The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened up, and looked at him . . . and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father.

~ Harry Potter in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * 

"I still don't believe it," Harry said hollowly, and folded his arms to emphasize the statement. "He's messing with my mind and _you're_ a Death Eater." He felt terrible as soon as the words were out of his mouth, because his da – the *Death Eater* looked as if someone had knocked him down, beaten him with a two-by-four, run over him with a gigantic lorry, and then murdered his whole family … oh, wait a minute, someone practically _had_.

For another minute they stared at each other, green eyes at grey, then the older wizard looked away, an expression of strained resolution creeping onto his face. "You're right," he said dully, voice still slightly uneven from the Cruciatus curse. "He's – _we're_ lying to you. You're not related to him at all – he's just … just … just saying that to hurt you."

Harry felt as if someone had ripped the ground out from underneath him. For a moment he stared at the man, reeling mentally. Was that it? Was that the real explanation? He wanted it to be true, he wanted to _know_, without the shadow of a doubt, that Voldemort was no ancestor of his, that he could still hate the man who'd killed his mother – his _parents_ – that he didn't have Slytherin's blood in his veins. But he also wanted his father to be alive.

And he knew, now, that it _was_ his father.

He might not want it to be, for accepting that his dad was alive meant accepting that his dad was _Voldemort's son_, but it was. Even if he went through the rest of his life with a thousand logical reasons why the man wasn't his father, he would always be certain, absolutely certain in his heart, that he had sat on a dark blue couch next to his father … and pushed him away. He couldn't have said what had convinced him, but … no actor could have reacted to Voldemort's words like that.

The man was still talking, his voice hitching slightly. "I'm a Death Eater – he put an illusion charm on me that makes me look like … like your father. It was to get you to touch the portkey, like he said. Now I'm supposed to try and persuade you to agree not to fight him any more."

"So … he doesn't want me to fight him any more because I almost killed him in June with that … er … that conflagration hex?" Harry asked softly, hands curling into anxious fists.

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded slightly. "Yes – yes, that's why."

__

He really doesn't know. He doesn't have any idea what happened in June. He's not a Death Eater. He's lying to me now, lying to me to protect me from the truth. He's …

He's my father.

Dad.

"So he _was_ telling the truth." Harry hadn't meant to say anything at all, but the exhausted, frightened words came out anyway. 

The man … his _dad_, James Potter, turned to look at him, eyes startled behind his glasses. "No – weren't you listening? I said – I said … " He trailed off as Harry leaned forward slightly, staring at him as if in a trance.

He really looked just exactly like the photos.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I – I'm sorry. I believe you now … Dad."

"No!" James protested, his eyes as wild as his uncombed hair. "He – I – you don't have to – it's – it's …" He looked down at his hands helplessly. "You don't have to … I know you don't want to believe _him_, Harry."

For several minutes, the two Potters sat quietly on the sofa, each staring down, turning matters over in his own mind. Harry looked up first; James followed suit a moment later, feeling his son's eyes on his bent head. 

  
"So," Harry said quietly, having decided to put off reacting to the overwhelming situation. "What happens now?"

James blinked. "You … you really do believe me, Harry?"

Harry hesitated long enough to make up his own mind, irrevocably. For better or for worse, this man was now, in his own heart and mind, his father, back from the dead. "Yes."

The lost look melted out of James's eyes almost instantly, replaced by delight. He started to grin, then stopped, evidently recollecting his surroundings. They stared at each other a moment longer, then both smiled tentatively. But neither could think of anything to say.

James broke the suddenly awkward silence with a question. "Was what he said true – about why you're alive, I mean?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. The curse did bounce off of me. It made him vanish, and I got this scar. See?" He flipped up his bangs – they needed cutting again, but he couldn't help noticing that his dad's hair was hardly in better shape. James glanced at it, wide-eyed. 

"So, you –"

"Defeated Voldemort as a one-year-old?" Harry asked, unable to keep the slight bitterness out of his voice. "Yeah. But I didn't even do anything. It was Mum –" He broke off instantly as pain flashed across his father's face.

"No, go on," James insisted, his voice wavering unsteadily. "What … what happened? I know Lily's … dead …" His eyes moved away, staring past Harry with a haunted expression. "Dead …"

Harry pulled back slightly. James really didn't quite look "all there," and Harry wondered, for the first time, just how that fourteen-year-wait in … in wherever it was that Voldemort had mentioned … had damaged him. 

"It was because Mum died for me," he finished, his own voice not quite steady. "She wouldn't get out of his way, and he cast the killing curse on her. Dumbledore said that was what protected me." James nodded slightly, then pulled his glasses off to rub at his eyes. Harry looked away politely. While studying the blank cement wall, something else occurred to him. He turned back quickly, and demanded, "What were you saying about 'Peter'?"

James stared at him, adjusting his glasses. "What … ? Oh – Peter!" Now he looked thoroughly confused. "He was here," he said uncertainly. "I mean, not here, but … wherever it was that I woke up. I … I think. I thought it was him … no, it _was_ him. He told me you were alive."

Harry interrupted him firmly. "Peter Pettigrew is a Death Eater."

That remark did not get any of the responses he had expected. James stared at him for a moment in incomprehension, then suddenly laughed, his laughter edged with hysteria. "Oh, so _all_ of my friends are Death Eaters now? What's next – I'm one myself? Lily was? You are? Professor Dumbledore is? Professor McGonagall? Bartemius Crouch? Frank Longbottom?"

"I know what I'm talking about!" Harry shouted. 

James quieted instantly, and stared at his son through grieved eyes. "But Peter –"

"He's the one who betrayed you to Voldemort!" 

"He said Sirius did it," James said quietly, numbly. "He said Sirius did it, and they put him into Azkaban."

"Sirius _didn't_ do it," Harry insisted fiercely. "Sirius is innocent! Wormtail was the one who was the spy – he was your Secret Keeper, wasn't he?"

"Sirius is innocent?" James repeated hopefully. "You mean – Sirius is – you mean Peter was wrong?"

"Well, the Ministry did put Sirius into Azkaban, but he didn't kill anybody, and he wasn't, _isn't_ a Death Eater."

James's eyes went wide. "Azkaban? And he didn't … he's innocent … and they put him into Azkaban?" Harry watched his father's face run a gamut of expressions – from shock to horror to anger to grief – and remembered that he had been told that, out of all of his friends, his dad was closest to Sirius. 

"He escaped," Harry said hastily, "and he's not insane or anything. And I know he's innocent." He was about to add that Dumbledore knew too, but, at the last moment, he recollected that Voldemort might well be listening to their conversation. He clamped his mouth shut, wondering anxiously if the Dark Lord had been eavesdropping. It was a very disturbing thought.

James looked up slowly. "Are you staying with him, then? Peter said …"

"No – the Ministry doesn't know he didn't betray you and Mum. I'm staying with the Dursleys. I don't even know where Sirius is right now," he added for the benefit of any invisible listeners. 

"What about Remus?" James demanded. "You said he was alive, back in that house – is he?"

Harry blinked. "Well, of course he's alive."

James pulled his glasses off again, blinking hard. "So Peter _was_ lying to me."

"He's a filthy traitor, and it's all his fault!" Harry snapped fiercely, irrationally angered that his father was so upset about Wormtail. "He's – he's a dirty rat! It's his fault I didn't get to grow up with Sirius – he _framed_ Sirius – and it's his fault Mum's dead and you were dead, or whatever – and it's his fault that Voldemort's back, and Cedric is dead, and it's his fault that Professor Lupin lost his job, and it's his fault that we're here now, and – and – and …" He paused, and looked down. "Would you kill him, knowing all that, if you had the chance?" he asked quietly. "Or let someone else kill him?"

James was looking extremely shaken. Slowly, he shook his head. "It wouldn't be my place to kill him," he said softly, staring blankly at the wall. "I would hope that if I meet him again … I…" Quite suddenly, he buried his face in his hands. "How _could_ he?"

Harry half-opened his mouth, then shut it again. He wanted badly to tell his father what had happened in the Shrieking Shack and what had happened in the maze at the Triwizard Tournament, to be assured that none of it was his fault, that he had acted well … but it somehow did not seem like the right time. And he was afraid, afraid that he would see disappointment and condemnation in those grey eyes. Instead, he looked down at the arm of the couch, studying the weave of the fabric. 

"It's all my fault," he heard James mutter into his hands, the words muffled but audible. Harry whipped his head around to stare, round-eyed with astonishment. 

"_What's_ your fault?" 

"This whole bloody mess," James whispered wretchedly. "Lily – and Peter – and Sirius – and everything that's happened to you … I should never have married Lily … She'd still be alive and happy if I hadn't been such a selfish, thoughtless _fool_. And Sirius wouldn't have had to go to that bloody awful place, and Voldemort wouldn't have gone after Peter…"

Harry felt obscurely distressed – and even a trifle angry at his dad's pessimistic attitude. "But you didn't know," he said firmly. "Voldemort said you were unaware of your … er … you know." He didn't really want to say it – saying it would make it a fact that had to be discussed and thought over and dealt with … and he had no intention of dealing with it now, tomorrow, or anytime within the foreseeable future. "You didn't know until after you'd married Mum." 

"But I _did_," James said quietly. "I –"

Harry gaped at him, head spinning. "You knew about that – that – that _stupid_ prophecy thing, and you married Mum anyway?!" The unspoken _"how could you?"_ rang in the air between them.

"Not about the prophecy," James insisted, raising his head. "If I'd known about that, I'd never have put her in danger – never! But I knew about … about the other part. My mother told me after I graduated – right before she died. She told me who I was, and all that, but she said _he_ didn't know. She said he didn't have any way of finding out where I was, or _who_ I was, said that I was safe. So I just … pretended it never happened, I suppose. I tried not to think about it, because I didn't think it mattered." He lowered his head again, staring at the floor, and bitterness crept into his voice. "I was wrong."

Harry was silent, and, after a moment, James went on bleakly. "It was a bit of a shock when he 'spoke to me' like he mentioned. I was sure I was going to die – his Death Eaters had caught me, I was unarmed, injured, and bound, and here was You-Know-Bloody-Well-Who himself in front of me. Then he told me that quaint little story he just told you, including that cursed prophecy, which he actually *believes*, curse him, and I wished he _had_ killed me. He was threatening Lily and my friends if I didn't bring you to him as soon as you were born – and Lily was expecting any day. A year seemed like an awfully long time when he offered it; I was sure I could find a way to keep us all safe by the time it was over. But I couldn't bring myself to tell Lily or the Headmaster or even Sirius because … well, because … because it's so …"

"I know," Harry said flatly. 

James looked over at him penitently. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to know … I …"

"It's okay," Harry said meaninglessly. He was struggling, mentally, with two conflicting desires – on the one hand, he desperately wanted James to stop talking about the whole hey-look-we're-related-to-Voldemort business, and on the other, he needed to know what had happened. And James seemed to need to talk about it – Harry got the impression that, since the very first day he'd found out about it, he'd been keeping it bottled up tighter than Professor Snape's hair-cleaner. 

"So," he finally said, looking back at the arm of the couch and plucking at a stray thread, "what … what happened when – well, when the year was up?"

"He came to me," James answered, his voice soft and dull. "I was an Auror, you know, and I was guarding – a place – and he just appeared. There were anti-apparition wards up, so I don't know how he did it, but … well, we talked. I told him I wouldn't do it, and he didn't take it very well. He started breathing out threats against you, and Lily, and me – saying he'd get you anyway, and I'd be sorry, I'd wish I'd never been born. I don't think he's used to having people say 'no' to him. That's probably why he goes around wreaking havoc – Sirius always says …" James stopped suddenly, his face twisting. Then, the story forgotten, he looked at Harry, eyes wide and anxious. "How is Sirius, Harry? Is he still … Sirius?"

"Oh, I don't think he acts serious all the time," Harry said feebly, struggling to make a joke, to break the tense pain behind his dad's eyes. "He's – he's fine. Really. _Really!_" he insisted. It hardly sounded convincing. James kept staring at him, searching for a reassurance that was not there, and Harry was suddenly aware that his dad was _young_ – no older than he appeared in the latest photos Harry possessed. What would Sirius think? He'd be happy, surely; Harry was well aware that Sirius felt responsible – _guilty_, in fact – for James's death. But what would he think about the _reason_ why James was alive?

Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face, because James was looking concerned now. "He's fine," Harry repeated, and hastily added, "So – er – what happened after that?" 

James was obviously frustrated and frightened by Harry's refusal to discuss Sirius. He ignored the question. "What about Remus?" he demanded desperately. "_He's_ fine, isn't he?" 

Harry nodded hastily. "Oh, absolutely. He was a professor at Hogwarts for a while – everybody loved him. Well, except Malfoy and Snape."

"Professor?" James repeated in astonishment – then, in even greater shock, "_Snape_?!" 

"Er, yes. Snape teaches potions." He summoned a weak smile. "Sirius was surprised too when he heard about it. You should have seen what the Marauder's Map called him, though – it was hilarious." Too late, Harry recollected that he probably shouldn't have mentioned the Marauder's Map, not when it was almost certain that Voldemort was listening. "But could you finish what you were telling me about?"

James shifted, winding his hands together. "There's nothing to tell. He gave me one last chance instead of killing me then and there, and I took you and … and your mother into hiding. We stayed ahead of the Death Eaters for about three months, then … well, I guess you know what happened."

Harry nodded, hesitating before speaking again, softly. "Was it very unpleasant, the place where you were before you came back?"

A shiver ran through his dad's body, and James ducked his head, looking away. "Rather," he answered lightly, his voice superficially cheerful. "Not the pleasantest spot in the world – though, come to think of it, it wasn't in this world at all, don't you know. I'm not eager to get a return ticket." Obviously struggling to change the subject, he went on, "So – er – what's this about you being in love?"

"We're just friends!" Harry yelped indignantly. "It was that stupid Skeeter lady – she said Hermione was my girlfriend in the _Daily Prophet_, and she's not!" James grinned faintly, and Harry's embarrassment faded. He had succeeded in removing some of the depression from his dad's stance, and he would have been willing to stand up and dance the tango to do that, let alone answer a stupid question. 

"Are you in Gryffindor, Harry?" 

Harry's mouth dropped open. He was somehow deeply shocked at this display of his father's complete ignorance of his life, and he floundered helplessly for a moment. 

James apparently misinterpreted his distress, for he hastily added, "It's quite all right if you're not – I mean – the other houses are all fine too, and the Hat wanted to put me – er –"

"I'm in Gryffindor," Harry said hastily. His father's face lit up, and Harry blushed. "Speaking of Gryffindor," he hurried on, "er, how about we do some 'reckless and stupid' things and try to get out of here? Because, well, I don't really want to stick around for when we have to say 'no' to Voldemort."

James blinked, smiled, and straightened. "I've never heard a better idea," he said sincerely, then paused. "Well, there _was_ the time that Sirius suggested we cast banishing charms on those Acromantulas before they got around to eating us …"

* * *

Dudley Dursley did not understand what was wrong, but he was sure that he didn't like it. Harry was quite gone, vanished into thin air – though his father had shouted at him hoarsely when he had made use of that phrase earlier – leaving that funny stick called a "wand" – though his mother had screamed at him when he had used the word – lying on the floor in the upstairs hall. His parents were creeping about the house at a snail's pace, dark circles under their eyes. They had not gone back to bed after the incident at the front door – apparently they had stayed in the kitchen with the door barricaded until morning. Dudley couldn't say for sure, since he had fallen asleep shortly after returning to his room.

His mum and dad were starting at every sound, at every unexpected movement – his mother had shrieked aloud when a car had backfired in the street outside. They were both terrified, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot and darting nervously, and they kept backing into corners to converse in frightened whispers, though they stopped talking instantly whenever he tried to hear. That was the most infuriating thing of all – they were refusing to tell him what had happened to Harry, who had been at the door that night. 

He wished, now, that he had not succumbed to his impulse to hide under his bed, and had listened at his door instead, as he'd wanted to. He might have heard more – heard something actually worthwhile. 

Breakfast time had arrived, and his parents were still acting like jittery cats – jittery cats on hot wires in the same neighborhood as Piers Polkiss, for good measure. Neither of them had eaten anything, though Dad had drunk copious amounts of hot coffee and Mum had huddled up with a teapot. Dudley didn't particularly care – his mother was too distressed to bother him about not eating too much and he was grateful for the reprieve. There was some pretty good stuff in the refrigerator. 

And that was the reason why, when the jangling doorbell broke the silence, he banged his head sharply against the refrigerator's uppermost shelf. He extracted himself, with a minimal amount of ketchup in his hair, in time to see his father make a wild grab for the shotgun. Mum was just settling down to earth after a three-foot leap into the air, and the teacup she had been holding was decorating the tile floor, thin tea spreading out in scalloped waves around it. Her shriek emerged as a faint, high squeak, and she backed into the corner, quivering like cats did when Piers Polkiss got too close to them.

"V-V-Verrrrrnon!" she whimpered, then swiveled her head to lock a wide-eyed gaze on Dudley. "Dudley, sweetums! Come here right now, and don't make a sound!"

"It's probably the milkman," Dad said hoarsely, but his white-knuckled grip on the gun denied his own belief in the assertion. Dudley nervously inched closer to the back door, ready to make a quick escape if he had to. The bell rang again; Dudley's parents remained frozen in place. It rang yet again … and again … and then, unbelievably, chillingly, the double-locked-and-barred door slid open, the chairs that had been propped against it scraping softly across the floor.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice, taut with anxiety. "Is anyone here? Harry?"

A breathless pause, and then – 

"GET AWAY FROM HERE, YOU FREAKS!" Dudley's mum shrieked, pressing her back against the wall so hard that Dudley was astonished she didn't actually knock it down. 

The kitchen door banged open, and two men strode in, each with one of those _wands_ clutched in his right hand. Dudley was well aware that he was paling just as quickly as his parents; he choked down the food in his throat and backpedaled toward the outside door. No way was he getting another pig tail – and he didn't want to vanish like Harry, either. 

One of the men looked at him, eyes narrowed, and Dudley instantly froze in place. He'd been noticed – he'd better just hold still now. Less chance that he'd annoy them that way. And if they offered him candy, he definitely wasn't taking it. You could bet he'd learned his lesson about _that_, at least.

Not that either of these men looked the type who strewed their paths with candy, cursed or otherwise. The one turning in a circle as if checking the kitchen for hidden threats looked like he had AIDS or something – at any rate, he looked thin and sick and tired and generally all-around ill, not to mention worried and stressed enough to put Dad on a Grunnings Showcase Day to shame. And the other man was even worse. He looked frantic and really, really mad – scary, too, what with being almost as thin as the other man and even paler, and that untidy ink-black hair … and he looked kind of familiar. But it wasn't a nice kind of familiar, it was creepy, like knowing you'd seen him somewhere, somewhere very _bad_. 

At the moment, he was glaring at Dudley's dad like he would at a housefly crawling on his slice of chocolate cake. "Dursley," he snarled viciously. "Where is Harry?"

"I don't know!" Dad blustered furiously, but his face was grey and patchy and he didn't even look like he meant it. "How should I know where that brat is?"

"_Brat?!_" the man demanded, whipping his wand up to point straight at Dad, and Dudley decided that calling Harry names was kind of stupid – somewhere on the same level as running up and kicking the guy in the shins. Maybe even stupider, judging by the expression on the freak's face. "I'll ask this just once more," the man growled, his voice shaking. "_What has happened to Harry?_"

"I don't know!" Dudley's father shouted, red anger suffusing his face. "I told you, I don't know!" He brought the shotgun up defiantly, pointing it straight at the crazy black-haired man's head. "Now get out of our house and leave us alone, or –"

"_Accio_," the sick man said quietly, and the rifle ripped itself out of Dad's hands and flew toward the second freak. Dad's anger departed as quickly as it had come, and he backed toward the wall, shaking. The wizard … the _freak_ caught the gun with one hand, then dropped it to the ground and sent it skittering across the tiles with a push of his foot. It came to rest against the stove at the far end of the kitchen, and the man turned toward the angry freak. "Calm down, Sirius. Hexing the Muggles isn't going to help anything." 

Dudley's mum let out another shrill cry, and Dudley winced. He was beginning to wish she'd stop it – all those high-pitched shrieks were making his head hurt. "SIRIUS!" she wailed, eyes bulging in horror. "You're that murderer! Sirius Black! His murdering convict godfather!"

"Yes, and there will be _more_ murders done if you don't start cooperating," the man snapped, and Dudley shrank back. He recognized him now – the hair was shorter and less tangled, and the beard was gone (mostly gone, anyway – the freak apparently had forgotten to shave), but it was definitely that armed and dangerous convict that he'd seen on the telly … oh … two years ago now it must be. So this was Harry's godfather … Dudley had to admit that he had never felt a greater compulsion to be nice to Harry than right now, with his cousin's freak godfather, obviously absolutely _longing_ to kill people, less than eight feet away. 

"Now – now see here," Dudley's dad stuttered, "we always did our duty by that boy. Y-you can't get angry at us for this – it wasn't our fault – there wasn't anything we could have done –"

"WHAT HAPPENED?" the freak godfather stormed frantically, looking quite thoroughly insane.

"Why don't you let me ask the questions for a minute?" the sick man put in. He sounded calm and reasonable next to the crazy convict, but Dudley could see that he was worried and upset too. Imagine – two grownup, angry freaks right in their own kitchen. He'd had nightmares about situations like this. Dimly, he wondered what the freak godfather would do if he knew about the cupboard.

"I am one of Harry's professors from school," the freak with the disease was saying to Dad, "and I'm here with Harry's godfather to find out what's happened to him. We're aware that he's been missing from your house for several hours – do you know where he's gone?"

Dudley's parents shook their heads in mute unison.

The sick freak professor pressed on. "Do you know how long he's been gone?"

"Since – since about quarter past two last night – I mean, this morning," Dudley's dad mumbled. The convict growled angrily under his breath, but quieted again as the professor asked another question.

"Do you know why he left?"

"No," Dad said quickly. Maybe a little _too_ quickly. The godfather's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

But the freak teacher from the freak school was looking over Dad's shoulder, looking toward Mum in the corner. "Petunia – do you know why Harry left?"

"Do you _know_ these people, Petunia?" Dad demanded, looking more shocked than scared for about three seconds. 

Mum unwillingly muttered something under her breath that sounded like "frendzaLilysfrmatfreakinschool," then tossed her head back and defiantly said (in a very, very shaky voice), "I'd think you'd know better than us."

"And what," the godfather snarled, "is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"What do you mean, Mrs. Dursley?" the professor demanded more quietly.

Mum's voice rose in fear and anger. "We told you abnormal people to leave us alone! We let the boy go to that awful school – can't you at least leave him alone when he's at _our_ house? And I don't know what kind of a sick joke that was supposed to be, or who's been lying about it, or what it all meant, but I don't want any of you people coming near us ever, ever again!"

Without warning, Dudley's dad vanished – and a rather large, slimy slug landed on the clean tiles in the exact spot where he had been standing. Dudley let out a yell in concert with his mother. 

The freak godfather was looking very, very, _very_ impatient as he lowered his wand. "If you want your husband back," he snapped, "tell us what happened – all of it!"

Mum was sobbing now, crying from a mixture of fear and strained nerves. "He was ringing the bell," she whimpered pitiably. "At two in the morning! I opened the door, and it … it … well, what could I have done? People don't just come back from the dead like that – it was all wrong!"

Dread was creeping over the faces of both of the freaks, and Dudley was getting more scared than ever. If something could frighten these two terrifying freaks with their wands and magic, it must be majorly awful. "Who was it?" the sick professor demanded hoarsely.

"It was _him_ – that Potter!" Mum cried. "The one Lily married – but we were told he was _dead_!" She wrung her hands, trembling like a leaf in a storm. "What could we have done? It wasn't our fault!"

Dudley's heart dropped like a frozen stone. A dead man? Was that who had been at the door – was that who had followed Harry upstairs? Now he was _glad_ he hadn't listened … this was much too creepy. The reactions of the two freaks did nothing to reassure him.

The sick one turned paper-white and looked as if he was about to lose his breakfast. The convict staggered, actually _staggered_, and the expression on his face was like what you'd see if someone had just come up and stuck a knife into his heart. "Oh, God!" he whispered, and put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "What have I _done?_" 

"You're sure?" the freak professor demanded, looking even more upset than Mum did. "It was – it looked like – it looked like James?"

Mum nodded desperately. "Yes – just like him! Vernon thought it was Harry at first, but then Dudley said Harry was on the stairs, and we ran into the kitchen." Her words were tumbling out now, rushing over each other as though she couldn't get them spoken fast enough. "We blocked the door, and we couldn't hear anything except Harry shouting a bit – he sounded angry and upset – then Harry's door upstairs slammed and then we heard someone – _him_, the man at the door – going upstairs, and then we didn't hear anything else for a very long time, and when we finally came out, Harry and the – the – whoever it was – were gone! We don't know anything else, truly we don't!"

The murderer freak was leaning against the wall, hands splayed over his face. He was gasping, as if he was trying very hard not to hyperventilate. The professor didn't look much better, but at least he was still standing. He turned his head slowly, fixing stricken eyes on Dudley. "You," he said, and Dudley froze, petrified. "Did you hear anything else?"

Dudley shook his head violently, then hesitated. It wasn't quite true, but … "Well," he stammered, "After Harry slammed his door, I heard the – whoever it was – come up, and he was talking only I couldn't hear him because, er, because … well, I was under my … I mean … I wasn't listening, so I couldn't hear him, and then he started moving back toward the stairs and then I heard Harry's door open, and Harry yelled 'wait,' and started saying something else, and then it suddenly went really quiet." He paused, took a deep breath, and finished, "and then when I came out of my room, Harry wasn't in his room or anything – there was just his wand – I mean, that stick – on the floor in the hall."

Both freaks jumped violently and stared at him. He hadn't thought they could look any more startled, but now the sick one looked as if he wished he was dead, and the convict one looked as if he'd just heard Harry was dead or something. "His wand?" the godfather whispered hoarsely. "He hasn't got his wand?"

"Where is it?" the professor asked in a slightly-more-steady voice.

"Where it was," Dudley whispered. "We haven't … er … touched it." 

Both men turned and walked out of the kitchen, ignoring Mum's frantic demand that they turn Dad back into himself before they leave. Dudley hesitated, then crept after them. He didn't think they would hurt him, not now – and he was still curious.

He crouched on the stairs (rather uncomfortably, since the steps were rather narrow and he, well, wasn't), and listened to them as they stood in the hall. 

"That's Harry's wand, all right." That was the sick one, sounding as if he was in serious shock. "So he's defenseless against Voldemort. He's probably already dead."

"No." That was the crazy godfather, his voice desperate and edging on hysteria. "He's not dead – Dumbledore said we'd know if he was dead. That's one of the charms, just like the one that told us he was gone from here. He's still alive. And if he's still alive after seven hours, it means that Voldemort's not going to kill him right away. We can get him out, rescue him. We can. We've _got_ to!" 

A short silence, and then the professor said, "You're right. We'd better go back and tell Dumbledore what … what happened."

The godfather caught his breath, really sounding as if he was going to lose it. "Oh, God – it's all my fault. We should have told Harry – what was I _thinking?_ I should never have tried to keep it a secret - we should have _told _him about that stupid article and then he wouldn't have gone with that – that – that Death Eater, or whoever it was. I'm never going to forgive myself for this – if Harry dies, I'll –"

"If Harry dies," the sick freak cut in, his voice suddenly as hard and cold as diamonds, "_we'll_ hunt down whoever was responsible for stealing James's body and using it to lure Harry away, and we'll make him wish _Voldemort_ had killed him." 

Dudley gulped, feeling oddly sorry for whoever had just earned their anger. 

"Do you think Harry really thought that it was … that it was – him?" The freak godfather sounded utterly miserable, and when the professor answered, he didn't sound much better.

"If he was yelling 'wait,' he probably did. I wonder what – no. No point in wondering. Come on, Padfoot, we'd better go. Get Harry's things – his owl, his trunk – make sure to get the cloak. We may need it. Hurry."

He didn't get out of the stairwell in time, but they walked right past him without a second glance as he flattened himself against the wall, struggling to stay on his feet and take up as little space as possible. The godfather was carrying Harry's wand, and that big trunk, with the owl cage balanced on top of it, was actually _floating_ after him.

Dudley trailed down the steps slowly as they went back into the kitchen. He heard his mother cry, "Vernon!" with a voice full of relief, and guessed that his dad was back to his proper shape. Before he reached the kitchen door, it was flung open again and the freaks strode out. Blinking, he stood still in the middle of the front room, watching them as they headed for the door. The godfather freak went out; the trunk followed him; the other paused in the doorway with his hand on the handle and turned back, pointing his wand at Dudley.

"_Obliviate_." 

Dudley blinked.

The front door was swinging shut, and Dudley had a funny feeling that something important had just happened, but he couldn't think what it was. He grappled with the problem for less than a second before turning toward the kitchen. He was pretty sure he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and the nagging feeling at the back of his mind could certainly wait.

No one heard the two faint _pops_ on the suddenly-empty front porch. 

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Responses:

Kitana: Thanks! You really responded to Chapter Six quickly … I think less than an hour after I put it up! Wow … well, I'm afraid that your questions must remain unanswered. :^) I don't want to spoil the plot _too_ much – suffice it to say that not everyone is as trusting as Harry. 

Giesbrecht: Oh, I'd be the first to agree that it's far, far from plausible … in fact, the idea should be on the Top Ten List of Plot Twists That Should Never be Mentioned to J.K.R. for Fear of Making Her Expire from Laughter Without Finishing Book Five. But I'm delighted you approve of Harry's reaction. Bringing a bit of enjoyment to the life of another Tolkien fan makes my day! :^)

Tarawen: Thank you! You're probably right about the 'Sirius' pronunciation … even if his parents didn't originally intend for it to sound like "serious," his friends would doubtless have latched onto the possibility for puns and general teasing and altered the pronunciation. 

Jeva: Wow … you really did figure it out … you're good. :-) Grandaddy Voldie? Hmm … I like it too! Well, if you think father/son bonding is really sweet, I could try to work in a Voldemort/James bonding thing … or not. ;^) In reference to your question – I really don't know. I have a feeling that Salazar Slytherin was probably the only Founder egotistical enough to set up the whole "heir" thing, but that's only my opinion. It _would_ be cool for them to be Gryffindor/Slytherin heirs, but I don't see that happening in this story, at least. Do I like the fact that you're typing that much? Oh, absolutely! The longer a review is, the happier I am. 

Prongs: Welcome! And thank you for the nice things you've said about NHP. :-)

Tolkienite: You think it's plausible?! Really?! Wow, that's one of the nicest compliments I've ever been paid – and I do _not_ mean that sarcastically. :^) In reference to your questions – I never actually said that Voldemort did not _want_ Harry dead. He's merely, shall we say, a bit unnerved by Harry's seemingly boundless ability to escape from death – in short, he's afraid to try to kill Harry again. He has Other Plans … deep, dark, sinister plans, which shall be revealed in twenty or thirty chapters … (insert maniacal laughter here). You're right, though – Harry's scar would probably have twinged during his interview with Voldemort. It would not, however, have been blindingly painful. My reasoning for this is that the scar seems to hurt when Voldemort is in a murderous mood, and, during most of that discussion, he was _not_ in a murderous mood. But I should have mentioned it – consider the omission evidence of my distressing like of omniscience. 

TheNovice: Thank you! Yes, things will get … interesting … next time James and Peter meet. As regards your question: I probably didn't make that 'deal' too clear – it wasn't as if James actually made a bargain with Voldemort. In an effort to persuade James to "see the light" and join the winning side, Voldemort tried to act "nice," which involved promising James that he would not tell any of James's friends/relatives that he, James, was a Riddle rather than a Potter. That promise was the source of James's outburst in Chapter Six. 

kaydee: You're right, it _did_ come out in Chapter One – but it seems not many people picked up on it. :^) Congratulations if you figured it out! Oh, yeah, Voldemort doesn't know a thing about the Tom Riddle Diary episode, like you said. Malfoy is the only one who could really tell him … and Malfoy has no intention of doing so any time soon. 

Renai: Welcome! Anyone who likes CC is definitely a discerning reviewer. Hope I updated quickly enough for you. :^)

Padfoot's Heir: Awww … *blush* Thank you!


	8. Out of the Fire

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: I disclaim all responsibility for anyone and anything in this story. They belong to J.K.R. – but you knew that already. 

Sorry about the length of time it's taken me to get this out – hopefully I'll be able to post more regularly in the future. 

A/N: Thanks to Jedi Cosmos, Tarawen, vmr, Xaiver, Kitana, spangle star, TheNovice, MidnightDragon, Luna Rose, Nicky, kaydee, CrazyStacy, Padfoot's Heir, TheRedFeatheryPlug, Ice, Jeva, Prongs, Ashley, Shei, anime girl, Ariana Deralte, pixydust, Sailor Hylia, Chrysta, Denise, Chrissy, pastshadows, Storm Witch RD, Ari, Chrysta, and Roxy for their lovely, uplifting reviews. 

As always, responses to questions and comments are down at the end of the chapter. I'm trying to keep them brief, though, in the interests of time and space … sigh.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER EIGHT

__

The Patronus turned. It was cantering back toward Harry across the still surface of the water. It wasn't a horse. It wasn't a unicorn, either. It was a stag. It was shining brightly as the moon above ... it was coming back to him....

It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large, silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its antlered head. And Harry realized... "Prongs, "he whispered.

~ from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

* * * 

Slumped against the back of the couch, James watched his son struggle with the door – the only means of egress in the otherwise-bare cellar room. They'd been trying to pick the lock for over an hour now, using sundry broken bits of metal broken off from the springs of the couch (which, as a result, was now extremely uncomfortable), and they had yet to make the slightest bit of progress. They only thing either of them had succeeded in doing, James thought ruefully, was scraping half of the skin off of their fingertips. His own were bleeding slightly. It was highly annoying, really – he _knew_ how to pick locks, even if Harry didn't. But it just wouldn't open. He had no idea whether Voldemort had cast a charm on the old lock, or whether his failure was simply due to the general shakiness that still had hold of him. 

He ached all over – definite aftereffect of that blighted curse. And he was having trouble concentrating – he kept forgetting what they were trying to do, kept losing his train of thought. It was perplexing and a bit frightening. 

Across the room, Harry yelped faintly as the brittle wire in his hand snapped, drawing a thin line of blood across his fingers. He bounded to his feet, shaking his hand indignantly. James stared at his son, tracing the familiar yet strange lines of the face, the green eyes that looked so much older than they had just two months ago … James shook himself mentally, struggling to reorient his mind. It had been _fourteen years_, almost, and he had to think of it that way. He couldn't keep looking at Harry as if he was a stranger, some random teenager who had taken the place of the laughing, unscarred baby that James remembered so vividly. Harry was his son, Harry was fifteen years old, and he, James, had to remember those important facts. 

Never mind wondering what Lily would think if she could see him – what she'd say about those worn-out, horrendously oversized pajamas her precious son was currently wearing. Worrying about things like that could wait until Harry was safe. James knew that he could not put off thoughts of his wife forever – in fact, the nebulous pressure on the back of his mind had been steadily building for the past hour. Sooner or later, all of the things he did _not_ want to think about would come bursting through the frail mental blocks he had erected. And when that happened, his dubious concentration on the task at hand would be lost, and he _knew_ he would not be able to think straight, would not be able to function, would not be able to protect Harry. Never mind that wondering _how_ he knew would involve thinking about those things anyway. 

In fact, that whole line of thought was skating dangerously close to very perilous issues. 

James shook himself free of his momentary abstraction. His gaze came back into focus to reveal Harry standing in front of the door, staring at him through wide, alarmed eyes. The fearful expression vanished instantly, and Harry pasted a blatantly fake smile onto his face. "I don't think this is going to work …" He stopped speaking, the sentence sounding oddly incomplete. It sounded, James reflected, as if he had considered adding the word 'Dad' to his statement, and decided against it. The thought brought a painful twinge to his stomach.

He forced himself upright, grabbing at the back of the couch as a momentary wave of dizziness swept over him. "I don't think so either," he agreed, wondering if his voice was really as shaky as it sounded to his own ears. "Maybe we should …" He trailed off, wondering how much time they had left, how long it would be before _he_ came for them. They hadn't really talked about his offer yet, but, after all, they didn't need to. It was a given that they would refuse to have anything to do with him. The fact brought a warm glow of pride to James's heart – Harry had obviously inherited Lily's unshakable moral strength. But Voldemort would doubtless be more than a little put out when they told him "no," so it was imperative that they escape soon.

Having gone full circle in his thoughts, he picked up his sentence where he had left off, barely noticing the worry in Harry's transparent eyes. "… should try battering it down. Sirius always says that that's the big problem with wizarding folk – they rely so much on spells that they ignore Muggle methods of doing stuff. So even if that door is layered ten inches thick with locking spells, a well-placed blow with a well-wielded sofa ought to take it right down. I seriously doubt he's bothered to magically reinforce the hinges."

Harry frowned thoughtfully, reaching up to adjust his glasses. James stared at him, entranced. Harry really did look an awful lot like him, James, so … was that very mature and intelligent look of consideration the same as his own "Hmmm … It Seems That I Have Glasses, But I Don't Know Why" thinking look, as Sirius had dubbed it? It had taken him almost half an hour to forgive Sirius for making fun of his expression when he was grappling with a difficult problem … really, Sirius's impression of him had been almost cruel.

Well, looking back on it ten years later, it _had _been funny. 

Not ten. Twenty-four.

James looked past his son, concentrating on the door. This was _not_ the time to think of Sirius. Or of Peter, who had been laughing so hard at Sirius (wearing James's glasses and a ridiculously exaggerated expression of Deep Thought) that there had been tears running down his cheeks as he thumped Remus's shoulder…

No, better not go there.

Harry was saying something. James looked back at him, chagrined. "I'm sorry … could you say that again, Harry?"

Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyeing James with an almost distrustful expression. "I said, I don't think either of us is strong enough to, er, run the couch into the door hard enough to do any damage."

James blinked. He hadn't thought of that. He was definitely losing it.

__

"You're losing it, Jamesie. Bats in the belfry. Nutters as Dumbledore on a bad day. Too many late nights staring at the fire composing odes to Lily's eyebrows, I expect. We *can't* go down to the kitchens and get chicken broth for Remus because Professor McGonagall *confiscated your invisibility cloak,* remember, James? Hulllllooooo – Jaaaames? Anyone home today? No, Pete, I *don't* think he accidentally swapped minds with Snape – he's blinking, see? Anything requiring that much muscular coordination would be utterly beyond Slyther-Snape…" 

James curled his hands into fists, staring at his gaunt fingers, struggling to banish the laughing voice from his memory. Would Sirius be laughing now, laughing after being in Azkaban, bloody, hopeless Azkaban? He'd _hated_ Dementers – they'd _all _hated Dementers back in the days when they'd been young and together and invincible and had considered a lack of happiness to be the ultimate evil. 

__

"Dunno who created Dementers in the first place, but whoever did sure as anything deserves to be stuck in Azkaban himself. No, I take it back – nobody deserves that."

"You're right. It's probably too heavy for us." James turned briskly on his heel, studying the couch's sagging frame. 

__

Concentrate. Get Harry to safety. Don't fail again. Concentrate. Concentrate, dammit!

"If only I had my wand," Harry was saying mournfully. "If I had my wand we could, I dunno, banish the couch toward the door or something. Of course, if I had it, I could cast _Alohomora_ anyway, but …"

"Great idea!" James spun around again, wondering why that ridiculously simple idea hadn't occurred to him earlier. "I'm an idiot," he muttered half-aloud. "Too many years not being able to do magic, I expect."

Harry was gaping at him, baffled. "But … er … but we haven't _got_ a wand, remember?" he said carefully. 

"I know," James answered, marching over to the door and spreading his hand across the lock. "But we can still do magic without wands, can't we?" he asked triumphantly.

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Harry certainly didn't seem to think that the answer was obvious. He continued to stare, frowning now. "Er … can we?" he asked dubiously. "I've never … well, there was Aunt Marge, but I …"

"Any wizard can do wandless magic," James pointed out, puzzled at his son's lack of knowledge. "You've seen Dumbledore do it, surely?"

"Well, yes," Harry admitted, "but he's … Dumbledore."

James nodded. "He's exceptional, all right. Most wizards couldn't do it that often without exhausting themselves. It rather depends on the strength of the wizard, after all … at least, that's what I read. Although any wizard can do … things … if he's angry enough, scared enough, upset enough … you know."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Yes – I've accidentally done stuff before. I made the glass vanish from in front of a snake's cage once."

"Exactly. Use of a wand simply –" James cut himself off abruptly, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'll explain it in detail later – there's not time for me to go all Professor Moony on you. Just believe me when I say it's possible for us to do _Alohomora_ without a wand – it'll just be kind of draining, that's all." 

"To go all Professor Moony on me?" Harry asked, amusement creeping over his face. "Let me guess – Sirius made that up, didn't he?"

It was amazing what a difference a smile made on his face. James stared at his son's dancing eyes for a moment, then felt a grin overspread his own face. "Yes – he got tired of having to listen to Remus giving lectures on any little piece of information Peter asked a question about." 

Harry's face darkened again, but it took James a moment to realize that it had been the mention of Peter that had banished the momentary light-heartedness. His own smile vanished, and he looked away, depression settling on his mind again.

"Well, should I try it, then?" Harry asked shortly, surveying the door.

"No, let me," James demurred. "I've had more experience at trying to get a spell to work sans wand."

Fifteen minutes later, he was wishing he had let Harry try. Light-headed from the intense focusing, James slid down and sat with his back against the door, wordlessly giving up.

"So it's not working," Harry observed, eyeing the door belligerently. "Why d'you think that is?"

"I don't know." James cradled his head in his hands, wishing the hammer pounding on the back of his forehead would go away. "I'm doing the spell right … I think … but it just won't do anything. Either I just can't do it, or it's no simple locking spell he's put on it. I rather think it's the latter."

Harry nodded. "So, should we just use magic to slam the sofa into the door instead?" James brought his head up, gaping. Harry shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"Nothing," James said sincerely. "I'm just embarrassed that I keep getting shown up by my own son – it's not real good for one's ego, you know." Harry blushed. James levered himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall, and motioned for Harry to move out of the way. "Don't want to hit you with the couch," he explained, then moved back himself, narrowing his eyes in determination. "This time," he muttered, pointing at the old couch, "I'm going to do it _right_." 

The couch wrenched itself up from the ground, hovered in place for a fraction of a second, then streaked for the door like an augury with its tail-feathers on fire. Like a javelin thrown by a giant, it smashed into the door – and the door, insufficiently reinforced to deal with rabid, rampaging couches, went down with a resounding crash. The couch dropped heavily on top of it – and then there was silence … as soon as the echoes died away.

Harry stared at the splintered door and smashed furniture in the hallway outside, then turned to James with raised eyebrows. James swallowed, a trifle abashed. "Well," he pointed out, "I said I'd had experience, not that I was _good_ at it." 

"We'd better leave now if we're going to leave," Harry said with a down-to-earth practicality that reminded James all too much of Lily. "The Death Eaters are sure to have heard that racket."

And before James could order the reckless kid to let him, the responsible adult, go first, Harry had briskly clambered over the shattered remains of their improvised battering ram and dropped onto the stone floor of the hall outside. 

The next moment, he yelled loud enough to wake the dead – which brought a _very_ bad mental image to James's subconscious – and leapt two feet into the air. He landed on one foot, muffled another yelp, and hopped awkwardly to the couch, face twisted in pain. Completely ignoring the splinters and twisted springs, Harry collapsed on its battered frame, wrapping his hands around his bare feet and saying some very nasty things under his breath.

Could she have heard him, Lily would _not_ have been pleased. 

James had covered half of the distance to the doorway before Harry had even come back down to earth from his first leap, and now he scrambled across the couch to his son's side, heart pounding with worry. "What is it? Are you all right? What happened?"

Harry looked up, grimacing in a valiant effort to suppress tears. "The floor – it was _hot_." 

James glanced down at the flagstones. They could use a good sweeping, certainly, but they didn't _look_ hot. Then he turned his attention to his son's feet and gasped aloud. The soles were red and scorched – blisters were forming on them already, blisters that ominously resembled the second-degree burns Sirius had once acquired from trifling with Severus Snape's locked school trunk.

"Hell!" James hissed, and looked wildly about for nonexistent ice packs. "Oh, _damn_ – I'm so sorry – don't move, you'd better not touch the burns –"

Harry swallowed hard and moved his hands away. "It's not that bad," he said in an almost-steady voice, but his pale, strained face testified to the untruth. "It just startled me. I'll be okay in a second." Now he looked faintly chagrined, as if ashamed he was making such a big deal out of it. "It's nothing."

James gave up the futile search through the pockets of his new Muggle clothes. Obviously whoever had given them to him hadn't had the foresight to add a handkerchief. "Don't be ridiculous," he said firmly. "Just hold still." He wasn't sure how one went about doing a cooling charm without a wand, but he was sure as anything going to give it a try. His first attempt was less than successful – Harry jerked away as if James had prodded his injured feet with a sharp-tined fork, and informed him quite frankly that if that was meant to be _cold_, then Blast-Ended Skrewts were harmless kittens. James had no idea what a Blast-Ended Skrewt was, but he gathered from Harry's distressed face that these Skrewts must be pretty far from harmless kittens.

His second effort seemed to work, though, and Harry relaxed with a mumbled expression of thanks. James had no idea how long he could keep it up – black clouds of exhaustion were edging across his vision already, and they were less than three feet closer to freedom than they had been half an hour ago. 

"He must have charmed it," Harry muttered tightly, staring at the innocent floor of the hallway. "If only I had shoes!"

"I have shoes," James remarked, then added thoughtfully, "Maybe I could carry you …"

Harry looked a trifle dubious. "Maybe."

"All right, that's Plan A, then," James stated. "If I'm not … well … not strong enough to manage it, I guess Plan B could be that you take my shoes and –"

"I'm not going anywhere without you," Harry interrupted implacably, fixing a stern gaze on James's face.

James stopped short, oddly moved by the words. He suddenly realized that he had tears in his eyes, and hoped desperately that his glasses would hide them. Few things could be more embarrassing than crying in front of one's teenaged son … 

Harry fidgeted, looking uncomfortable again, and hastily said, "Maybe we could use some cloth from this couch. We could, say, tear some of it off and wrap it around my feet, and maybe that would keep the heat away."

James blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, and managed to speak with reasonable steadiness. "We'll call it Plan B. Plan C is that the shoed person levitates the shoeless person … no, scratch that. I have no idea where we are and it would be pretty much impossible to keep a levitation charm going for more than a couple of minutes without a wand …"

Alarm edged onto Harry's face. "What about this cooling thing, then? Hadn't you better stop?"

"I haven't fainted yet," James quipped. "Have a little faith, will you?"

"I feel fine now. You can stop." Harry pulled his feet back protectively

James let the charm go reluctantly. Harry was obviously still in pain, but it really would be stupid to completely exhaust himself in the middle of their escape attempt. He moved to stand, but his muscles were refusing to cooperate. 

__

Perhaps I did overdo it just a little …

"I wonder why he charmed the floor?" James mused aloud, stalling for time. If he just sat still for a few minutes, he'd feel fine again. No need to scare Harry by revealing how weak he really felt.

"To keep us from escaping?" Harry suggested dubiously.

James frowned. "If that's so, it's certainly a terribly inefficient way to go about it. He'd have done better to just put up some wards, or blocked the doorway better." 

Harry was fidgeting nervously, obviously uninterested in the question of Why Evil Overlords Do Stupid Things. "We'd better get going," he hinted. "Somebody must have heard all the noise we made – we've got to get out of here before Death Eaters come." 

__

He's right … but why haven't they come already? Surely anyone near enough to overhear us could have gotten hear by now …

An awful suspicion was creeping into James's mind.

__

If no-one's here yet, then no-one is coming. Which either means that there aren't guards at all, or that he ordered them not to interfere if they heard funny noises. Which probably means that he either doesn't care whether or not we escape (very funny, that), or that he's going to let us almost escape before dragging us back … in other words, he's toying with us.

James narrowed his eyes angrily. "Well, he's going to find out that Potters are the wrong people to toy with," he muttered under his breath, earning a very strange look from Harry.

"Are you … feeling alright?" Harry asked carefully, and James threw him an apologetic half-grin.

"Fine. Sorry. I was wondering … but that's not important." James gave the floor a quick, dubious glance before getting to his feet. "Here goes – ouch!"

The heat went right through the soles of his shoes. He forced himself to take one step, then realized that he'd never be able to keep it up. One jump brought him back onto the sofa, which obligingly rammed a few splinters into one of his hands. 

Harry's eyes widened in concern. "You could feel it right through your shoes?"

James wrenched one of the splinters out of his palm, wincing, then bent to examine his own feet. "Yes …" Oddly enough, the soles of his shoes didn't seem to be in the least damaged. Yet his feet were, without question, rather nastily scorched. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. 

"So much for Plans A, B, and C," Harry sighed. "Now what?"

James replaced his shoes and heaved a sigh. "Well, the way I see it, we have three options now. Option One is that we go back into the jail cell and pretend we have no idea how the couch came to be lying in the hall when he comes back. Personally, I don't think much of that plan."

"Neither do I," Harry admitted. "What's Option Two?"

"Staying right where we are and thinking up nasty things to say to him about the state of the doors in his base – this is his base, isn't it? – when he comes back."

Harry considered it solemnly. He was certainly doing an excellent job of hiding any trepidation. "Better than Option One, but Hermione wouldn't approve."

"Hermione?" James asked, before remembering that Harry had mentioned the name before. "Oh, your girlfriend."

"She's _not_ my girlfriend!" Harry yelped in exasperation. 

"Sorry." James suppressed a smile. "Who is she, then?"

"She's one of my friends. She's really smart and an awful bookworm, but she's a wonderful person." Harry's expression softened, and James felt a momentary lifting of the burden on his heart. At least Harry had some good friends, even if he had had to grow up without a family. "She'd probably say, '_Honestly_, Harry – isn't making You-Know-Who even angrier at you a _terribly_ silly risk to take?' And then she'd probably slap him once he did turn up." Harry grinned, and James managed a chuckle.

"Sounds like you have some great friends – I hope I get to meet her sometime." 

"Yeah … so do I. And Ron too - he's my best friend. He's –" Harry cut off suddenly and glanced about nervously. 

"What is it?" James demanded, tensing. "Did you hear something?"

Harry shook his head, looking ashamed of himself. "No – it's just that anybody could be listening, you know. I shouldn't be talking like this." 

__

Harry's right. It would be simple for him to eavesdrop. But if he's still listening at this point rather than *stopping* us, it definitely means he's toying with us. So he probably is. Well, let him. He'll see we're not afraid…

"Option Three," James said firmly, "is staying right where we are and trying to think of a way to get past this problem."

"Option Three has my vote," Harry promptly said, straightening his shoulders. "Er … got any ideas?"

James looked up the dimly lit corridor – it stretched on for perhaps ten yards before vanishing around a corner. "Not beyond making a sprint for it and hoping we don't get too badly burned," he admitted. "But I don't think your friend would approve of that either. We might have to check all of those doors there to find a way out – or this hallway might go on for miles without any exits … there's no way to tell." James sighed again. "If only we could just summon some broomsticks."

"That's just what I was thinking!" Harry's startled expression faded into delight, and he grinned. "Great minds think alike, I guess. If I had my Firebolt here –"

"Is that a new broom?" James asked curiously.

Harry nodded, his whole face lighting up. Obviously, brooms, flying, and Quidditch were all topics near and dear to his heart. "Yes – it's a _wonderful_ broom – top of the line! Sirius got it for me and it's practically saved my life already – I summoned it when I was fighting a dragon in the Triwizard Tournament, and –"

"Dragon?" James interrupted weakly. "Triwizard Tournament? What?"

"Last year –" Harry's face shadowed over suddenly. "Never mind. I'll tell you about it later – I don't want to talk about the tournament right now. We'd better just think about getting out of here. I don't suppose there's any chance we _could_ summon some broomsticks?"

James abandoned his puzzled attempt to figure out why Harry didn't like thinking about this Triwizard Tournament thing, and considered the question carefully. "Well, it's difficult to summon something if you don't have any idea where it is – and I'm afraid the broom shed at Hogwarts is probably a little far away to be of any use to us. Anyway, seeing broomsticks flying down the corridors would probably tell even the densest Death Eater that something was up." 

Harry slumped again. "Guess so. This is one of those times when I realize that Rita Skeeter had the right idea," he muttered. "I wouldn't object to being able to fly right now."

"Skeeter?" James frowned. "There was a Skeeter in seventh year when I entered Hogwarts. A really disagreeable girl."

"That's her. She's an animagus – she turns into a flying insect." Harry eyed the floor miserably. "That would solve our problems, all right …"

"That's it!" James snapped his fingers, and Harry glanced at him in confusion. "I'm an Animagus – I can turn into a –"

Harry's eyes widened in horror. "Shut up!" he yelped. James closed his mouth, shocked. "Do you want Voldemort to hear it?" Harry hissed.

James sighed. "Well, I have to admit you have a point, but – wait. Surely he already knows?"

"Does he?" Harry asked faintly.

James frowned, trying, for the first time, to remember exactly how he had ended up with Peter. "I was in my animagus form, I'm sure of it. I changed after I … after I woke up at the cemetery, and I don't remember changing back, not until I found myself … wherever it was. Peter's house." James gulped. "And if Peter is what you say, then … he already knows."

Harry moaned. "I didn't think of that. So I guess he knows about – everything else – too."

"Cheer up," James suggested. "Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's not even listening to our conversation. Anyway, it won't hurt for me to finish what I was saying. I can turn into a stag, so maybe if I do, I can walk on the floor. There's always a chance it was charmed just to hurt you or me – which would explain why I could feel it through my shoes – but, anyway, if I can stand the heat, you can ride me. I'm sure hooves are less susceptible than feet, anyway."

Harry's face lit up hopefully. "You really think it'll work? But I'll be too heavy for you, surely, won't I?"

"I don't think so," James said cautiously. "You'll be a bit of a weight, but it isn't as if you're really, er, fat or anything. I used to carry Lily …" He trailed off, concentrating on damming up the memories again. It would have to wait. He couldn't think about Lily right now.

"Let's do it!"

James transformed right where he sat – which was probably a bad idea, as Harry shied away in surprise and one of James's thin deer-legs went through a hole in the battered piece of furniture and very nearly got caught. He scrambled up, keeping his head low to avoid scraping his antlers on the ceiling, then leapt down to the floor.

__

I'm brilliant.

It hardly burned at all. Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true, but it was bearable. And his hooves could take being burned much better than his feet could, anyway. He found himself wondering if any (completely hypothetical) burns would carry over when he transformed back, but hastily shoved the idea away. This definitely wasn't the time to worry about inconsequential things like that.

"Wow," Harry murmured from his perch on the thing-that-used-to-be-a-couch. "I didn't think Prongs'd be so _big_ …"

James shuffled closer to the couch and lowered his head, hoping Harry would take the hint. The hexed floor might be bearable, but that didn't mean it was _comfortable_, dash it.

"It's all right?" Harry asked, and James bobbed his head up and down impatiently. "So … I'm supposed to mount you?"

James turned sideways, hoping Harry would realize that a deer's back was not nearly as strong as a horse's. 

__

Sit up near the shoulders, Harry, or you'll break my back …

From what he could see, Harry seemed very dubious. "You sure don't look like you could carry me," he muttered, then put a tentative hand out. "Er … hold still … er … is this where I sit?"

__

Intelligence personified, that's my boy.

More head-bobbing and a bit of impatient dancing later, Harry was seated gingerly on Prongs's back, obviously terrified that he would be too heavy for the admittedly frail-looking stag. And he didn't seem particularly happy to be within a few inches of a vast expanse of rather sharp antlers, either, judging by the awkward way he was leaning back.

He was rather heavy. James hoped that this stupid little jaunt wouldn't do any permanent damage to either him or his stag form. But Harry couldn't be expected to walk, not with his feet burned that badly. 

They paused next to each door as they proceeded up the hallway; Harry declared each one firmly locked. As the corridor wound on and on, twisting in a serpentine, circular pattern, James became very, very glad that they had opted out of his "spring for it" plan. It seemed hours before a shallow stairway appeared ahead, and James quickened his pace. They might yet get out of here.

Clambering up the steps proved difficult and rather painful for James; he had forgotten how much more difficult jumping was with someone on his back. And his legs were beginning to ache and tingle – he had a bad feeling that it was due to the charm on the stones beneath his throbbing hooves. 

The door at the top of the stairs led to a broad, empty room lit by a dull chandelier. It was obvious which door led outside – the oddly ornate panels were fit with glass windows, which revealed a not-quite-pitch-black sky outside.

Harry jumped down to the ground, and James staggered slightly at the sudden release from his intolerable burden. His spine was hurting dreadfully. He'd probably been an idiot, again, but it wasn't to be helped.

"The floor's fine," Harry declared with relief. "You can turn back."

James considered that possibility carefully. He could turn back, certainly. And then he would be able to direct his son's movements and use magic again. But, on the other hand, he had a weapon in the form of his antlers, and he was too tired to use magic anyway ... and he had a very, very bad feeling about turning back.

Injuries in animagus form _did_ carry over when one returned to one's proper shape.

He shook his head awkwardly, and Harry's face fell. "You sure? I don't need to ride anymore." James stubbornly remained a stag, and Harry finally turned toward the door, hobbling awkwardly over the carpet on his injured feet. "Well, we'll be out of here in a second."

The door was locked.

Harry jerked on the handle, shoved on the door, rammed his shoulder against it, and darned it to heck. "What now?!" he demanded. "I can't break a pane of glass – neither of us could fit through."

That was true, certainly. And the only other windows in this stupid room were too high to be of any use. The architect of this building had obviously been insane. 

Harry slammed both of his hands against the door. "This is so _stupid!_ Uh – Alohomora! Open _up_, you dratted piece of wood! Alohomora! Open sesame! Alo –"

The lock clicked audibly. The door gently swung open, letting in the cool early morning air. 

"Wo-ow," Harry whispered, and grabbed the doorframe. "That felt _weird_…" 

Well, wonderful as it was that Harry was obviously a powerful wizard, this wasn't the time to stand around and chat about the odd sensations that doing magic without a wand gave one. James trotted forward and shoved his muzzle against Harry's cheek. Harry grinned faintly. "Right. Got to escape. I remember."

They started out across the smooth sward of grass, heading toward a dark line of trees in the distance. Twelve yards away from the mansion, Harry's damaged feet gave way and he fell. While waiting for Harry to cease protesting that he was fine (he must have tripped and he'd be ready to go on in a moment), James glanced back toward the building, trying to fix its dim outline in his mind. Dumbledore would want to know what it looked like if it was Voldemort's base. 

There was no-one chasing them. There were no lights in any of the windows. No movement. No guards.

__

He's letting us go … Damn. I don't know what it all means.

"Fine," Harry grumbled, and dragged himself back to his feet. "I'll ride." He scrambled back on board, and off they plodded.

Afterward, it seemed to James that he must have traveled for hours, stumbling through the rank grass, tripping over gnarled roots, ducking low branches, staggering with fatigue and constantly growing more certain that the charm on the floor of Voldemort's mansion had done serious damage to his feet. Harry offered directional suggestions occasionally, but was silent for the most part. Probably he recognized the futility of attempting to carry on a conversation with an exhausted stag.

As the sun rose, they found a bridle path and followed it up to a _real_ road – one of those dratted Muggle highways. James kept well back from its edge. There were only a few cars on it this early in the morning, but he had a feeling that anyone who spotted a teenaged boy in pajamas riding an enormous stag would make an unwanted fuss.

Harry leaned forward, unaware that any shifting of his weight made his limping mount nearly fall. "Why don't you change back?" he whispered into one of Prongs's large ears. "If we just look like hitchhikers, maybe we can get a ride to London, and we can get to Hogwarts from there."

Had he been less exhausted, James might have been proud that his son was so good at coming up with plans. As it was, he merely jerked his head in weary acquiescence. Harry slid off awkwardly, and James collapsed to his knees, struggling to catch his breath before attempting re-transformation. 

__

Here goes …

He heard Harry gasp softly as he returned to his human form; the next moment, a rush of exhaustion and blinding pain hit him as scorching tremors ran up from his hands and feet. His head hit the ground, for some odd reason, and the outer world seemed to be going fuzzy and indistinct. His last semi-clear thought was that at least this solved the question as to whether or not the charm on the floor of Voldemort's mansion could damage Animagi. 

Then he quietly passed out.

* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Responses:

Tarawen: Thank you! NHP is on your favorites' list? I'm really flattered … Well, 'necromancy' is magic relating to death – that is to say, people who are already dead. According to _Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language_, "necro–" comes from the Greek word _nekrós_, meaning 'dead person,' 'corpse,' or, as an adjective, 'dead.' The stem "–mancy" is from the Greek word _manteía_, meaning divination. However, it is also used to mean "magic," such that pyromancy, for instance, is not simply divination relating to fire, but also 'fire magic.' So, I've seen "necromancy" used to simply mean "magic involving raising people from the dead," which is pretty much how I'm using it. So, that's what Remus and Sirius are envisioning … poor chaps. 

TheNovice: Thanks … *blush.*

Luna Rose: Well, as you can see, James and Harry are "out" … but Sirius and Remus will also be showing up soon! 

kaydee: Thank you! Well, no, that 'place' isn't going to feature later … James simply hasn't shaken off his Auror training – specifically, Rule 132: "In casual conversation, never name a person, place, or thing you have become acquainted with in the course of duty." :^) Certainly, I agree that there's good in Peter – as you say, he could hardly have been one of the Marauders if he had been an absolute rat from Day #1. As for Voldemort … hmmm … I think one would have to dig down quite, quite deep to find any sparks of humanity left. It's tempting to try to redeem him, but considering how very long he has been evil incarnate, I fear it may not be practical. Not that James and Harry know that, mind you… Harry's godmother? I really have no idea. I think that the books offer some small, tiny, microscopic, quark-sized justification for the Arabella-Figg-is-Harry's-godmother idea – but, then again, he may not even have one. Perhaps the Potters thought two godparents would be an awful lot of trouble and decided only to bother with one. Personally, that's the theory I'm most inclined to.

Padfoot's Heir: Thank you! :^) I suppose this chapter has answered your first question, and answering the second would, indeed, be giving away plot … I will merely say that, if or when Sirius and Remus meet up with Voldemort, not all of the 'orrible curses would be heading in Voldemort's direction. And we don't want You-Know-Who to kill any of our favorite Marauders, do we? Not yet, anyway … }^)

Jeva: Thank you, and you're welcome! Oh, yes, Grandaddy Voldie knows what's up … Voldemort **is** rather more cunning than most people give him credit for, after all … everything is proceeding as he had foreseen … *insert evil cackling laughter here.* I'm glad you liked the Dudley POV – it seems to have worked rather well. :-) Ah, yes, I can't really see Harry suggesting that James run over to Granddad's house on Father's Day for a nice heart-to-heart. By the way, have I ever mentioned how much I like your really long reviews? Because I love them! ^.^

Ariana Deralte: Thanks! Yes, Dumbledore took the wards around the house down before sending Remus and Sirius in to check things out. There wasn't really any opportunity to mention it, but, hey, if I mentioned everything, this story would be FIFTY chapters long … and who'd want that? ;^)

Sailor Hylia: Thank you!!! I'm happy you liked the Dudley-development. Hmmm, I fear we won't actually see much more of the Dursleys – too many other characters to be dealt with. So, much as I'd like to redeem everyone's favorite neighborhood bully (everyone who prefers Piers Polkiss, please raise your hand), I'm afraid it won't fit into NHP. You thought I did a good job with Sirius and Remus?! Hurrah! I'm always surprised and pleased when my characterizations actually work … it's so difficult to write a character someone else invented. Ah, yes, Peter – everyone's favorite – uh – rat animagus? He will certainly play a role in this story … though I can hardly give away what happens to him now. I mean, heck, maybe I'm not even sure. I've only planned out the first twenty-two chapters, after all. ;-) 

Denise: Thank you, and welcome! Oooh, yes, Hermione and Ron and Draco will be making MANY appearances. This is, after all, a fifth-year fic … and it's fixing to be a pretty long one, too. Cursed plot bunnies … argh … 

pastshadows: Thank you! As for the depressing-ness of this story – there will be some (hopefully) less angsty parts in the future, but, hey, it IS a Drama/Angst fanfic …

Storm Witch RD: Oh, wow. Such long reviews … wow … I can't tell you how absolutely overjoyed I was to see them. There's nothing that delights an author's heart as much as lengthy, constructive feedback … but you probably knew that already. :^) Excuse me while I go read them all again, goofy smile firmly in place. Comments will follow…

Aaaalllright. In reference to your review on Chapter Five: Thank you! Hurrah – you liked it! Yes, I've also seen fics where the Dursleys beat up Harry 24-7, or where he decides to give up on life because of Cedric's death – they are rather annoying. Probably Vernon wouldn't have said "young man," but "boy" just didn't sound right, somehow … I'll think about that. Someday. As for Harry's little speech, there – I'm glad you like it! It might be a little long – probably is – but Harry is extremely keyed up and a touch hysterical. I rather imagined it as a torrent of hastily-spoken nonsense that Harry flung out to deal with that same hysteria… all right, so I did overdo it a little.

*Sheepish grin.* 

Right on! Harry's a brave kid – exceptionally brave – and usually very clear-headed, but he has trouble dealing with emotional problems like this. Everyone has a weak point, and since Harry's obviously isn't, as you said, Voldemort or death or Malfoys or physical torture, my guess would be that he would be extra vulnerable to mental/emotional attacks, especially given his upbringing... Oh, dear, now _I'm_ feeling sorry for him … 

You have more chapters of "Snake and Wolf"?! Forget your beta! Post them NOW! I'm certain they're quite good enough as they are. Have a little self-esteem, here! Post, I say, _post_!!! Of course, you may have _already_ posted them, for all I know … I haven't been able to actually spend time READING fanfics for weeks now …

Chapter Six:

They cut that line out? Wretches … what a crying scandal. I'm happy you think the family thing almost makes sense – it's a ridiculously far-fetched idea, I know, but, hey, if Voldemort spared James, there had to be _some_ reason why he did it. And when I looked at the timeline, it just fit too beautifully to be ignored … 

I've gotten the impression from Book 4 that Harry actually is a bit sarcastic, though I may have taken it too far. I realize I could well be wrong, but it seemed that he dealt with pressure or stress with sarcasm, at least occasionally. Besides, he's growing up … I have two brothers who were teenagers fairly recently, and my experience is that fifteen-year-old boys are usually quite sarcastic. 

(Sketchy evidence supporting Sarcastic!Harry from GoF:

__

"Yeah, that's right!" Harry found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just about enough. "I've just been crying my eyes out over my dead mum, and I'm just off to do a bit more. . ."

__

"There you go," Harry said. "Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky.. . . That's what you want, isn't it?"

**__**

Instant scalping. . . but dragons had no hair. . . **pepper breath**.. . that would probably increase a dragon's firepower. . . **horn tongue**. . . just what he needed, to give it an extra weapon...

"What d'you think I'm trying to do?" said Harry angrily. "A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason…Okay, try again. . . ."

"Well, that's good," said Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, "just as long as it's not drawn-out. I don't want to suffer."

__

"I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"

Hmm. OK, so some of it isn't particularly sarcastic …)

You like the quotes? Cool! 

James, the T-Man. Maybe T stands for **T**he Head Boy, or **T**ransfigurations Expert, or **T**erribly Badly Cursed, or **T**om Riddle's Son … argh, I can't believe I missed that. Oh, well. Thanks for pointing it out!

Do you mean you wonder why Voldemort didn't let Harry go in GoF? Well, my interpretation of the whole convoluted mess is that Voldemort actually does want Harry dead. He considers Harry a threat, partly because of that cheesy prophecy (which, as James pointed out, is very likely about as accurate as Trelawney's average prediction), and partly because Harry actually did defeat him in 1981. And he really does think that Harry, being descended from a Mudblood, is degrading the line of Salazar Slytherin. In addition, he is furious with Harry for humiliating him on three separate occasions – 1981, 1992, and 1995. As far as he's concerned, Harry deserves death for each of those occasions. However, after failing to kill Harry at the Riddle cemetery, he's become a bit worried about trying again. He has realized that the body he was returned to after his thirteen-year exile isn't invincible at all, and he doesn't want to risk getting killed again. Hence his decision to try neutralizing the Harry-threat through means other than "Avada Kedavra! Die, you stupid Gryffindor!" And, of course, he has real hopes that he can convince Harry to join him someday … He'd make quite a useful Death Eater, wouldn't he?

Chapter Seven: 

Yep! I've been working on the plot … it's an awfully unwieldy plot, too – I've barely started. At the moment I've got twenty-three chapters all planned out (except for the minor, but vital details which will inevitably wreck my whole plan, trashing the extended outlines I've constructed … sigh …) – and I'm barely up to Christmas. Of course, I'm not necessarily going to wait until June for the Final Showdown. :^)

You liked the Dursley part? Hurrah! Or, in the immortal words of Darth Vader, "YIPPEE!" 

You're right – the chapter title is wrong. I have changed it – please don't consider me hopelessly ignorant of the proper rules of grammar! Can we pretend it was merely an oversight? 

In summary: Thank you so much! *Bows down before almighty reviewer.* I really can't tell you how much I appreciate reviews like yours. So I guess I'd better not try.

Oh, dear. So much for my decision not to write such long responses to reviews … well, that was a foolish resolution, anyway. 

Chrysta: Glad you're enjoying it! As for the eyes question – I went back and reread the scenes featuring Tom Riddle in CoS, and I never found any mention of eye color at all. That rather surprised me, as I thought that I remembered his eyes were grey … I really think J.K.R. must never have mentioned it at all. So I decided to make 'em grey. :^)


	9. Reunion, Disunion

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer: Please consider this story disclaimed. If you don't believe me, see Chapters 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, and 8. 

A/N: The grand saga of … er … that is to say, the story of "how bad things happen to everybody's favorite characters" continues … Yes, I know it has been a very, very long time since the last chapter. Yes, I'm very sorry. No, I'm afraid I can't promise that it won't happen again. Yes, I do have my priorities straight – that's how I was able to even get **this** chapter out! Anyway, here it is, and hopefully the next one will be out soon.

Thanks to Kitana, Mayleesa, spangle star, Renai, Tarawen, MidnightDragon, Ari, Shei, Kaydee, Xaiver, Nicky, Ice, Phoenix, Anie, WeasleyTwinsLover1112, Jeva, Ariana Deralte, Giesbrecht, Alana, LittleEar BigEar's Sis, Sailor Hylia, Roxy, Lil Bear, Shaman Nameless One, Rowan, Green Eyed Lady, Chrysta, Kay, SiriusBPadfoot, summersun, and anyone who has reviewed since I last checked for their comments on Chapter Eight. 

As always, a few questions and comments are addressed down at the end of the chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER NINE

__

"You'd have thought Black and Potter were brothers!" chimed in Professor Flitwick. "Inseparable!"

"Of course they were," said Fudge. "Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him."

~ from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

* * * 

Remus sat at his kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, and watched Sirius pace. Their brief chat with Dumbledore had left both of them frightened and depressed – and his command for them to stay at home until he contacted them again was obviously wearing hard on Sirius. Remus himself was quite tired enough to be glad of a brief rest. But it was getting on toward eleven o'clock in the morning, and Harry was still missing. Still alive, according to the Headmaster, but definitely in trouble.

Wandless in the midst of Death Eaters. Dear God, he didn't stand a chance.

And the worst of it was that Remus had no idea what he could do. Sirius had suggested raiding the Ministry to get a list of the names of every suspected Death Eater, hunting them down, and searching their houses, but there were approximately twenty-seven flaws in that little plan. And Remus was having no luck coming up with a better – his head ached terribly. That last transformation had been rather nasty. And having to calm Sirius down hadn't exactly been a relaxing experience, either. 

Not that he actually _was_ calm now. Remus had pointed out at least three times now that wearing himself out wasn't going to help Harry, but Sirius had merely snarled at him and continued pacing jerkily, hand tight on his wand. At every little noise, he swung toward the window or the fireplace. He was seriously – no pun intended – beginning to get on Remus's nerves. What was left of them, at least. Remus was still tight-strung though he had decided to just internalize the situation – it had happened, he couldn't do anything about it right now, and there was no point in dwelling on it. Sure, the buried emotional baggage would make his next transformation a highly disagreeable experience, but that was just life. 

Maybe, once they got Harry back, he could let it out by throwing himself into the finding-out-who-stole-James's-body business. Or maybe he could get rid of the pain and stress by dismembering whoever had decided it would be clever to play on a lonely, orphaned boy's natural longing for his dead father by impersonating the said deceased father. Yes, that was an excellent plan. It might help Sirius, too.

An odd tinkling, ringing sound broke out from the parlor. Remus started – evidently, he hadn't calmed down as much as he had hoped – and some of his tea sloshed out of the mug. Fortunately, it was no longer scalding hot. Sirius reacted a bit more strongly. He spun around, looking panicked and furious, and raised his wand, obviously poised to fling out a curse. It _did_ sound a bit like a warning ward – but Remus happened to know that none of the protection charms he'd put up around his cottage sounded quite like that.

He rose, trying to clear some of the cotton wool from his head. The ringing came again. He knew what that sound was – it was rather important, really – but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it meant. Sirius had his head tilted, scowling in thought. Then his pale eyes widened in realization, and he flung himself toward the parlor, nearly wrenching the door off of its hinges as he hurtled into the room. "That Muggle thing!" he shouted over his shoulder, and Remus remembered. 

He and Sirius had consulted Harry's friend Hermione Granger for suggestions as to birthday gifts early in the summer – after he'd vetoed Sirius's proposal that they buy another new broom for him. Her return owl had born an enthusiastic suggestion that they install a Muggle telephone so that Harry could contact them without having to send his owl out since his relatives didn't like when he did that, and sometimes they even made him lock poor Hedwig up, and Harry would be _sure_ to like a way to actually talk to Sirius, and a fireplace wouldn't work, of course, because the Dursleys's was boarded up, and anyway, telephones were easy to install and not really expensive, and she, Hermione, would _love_ a way to be able to talk to Professor Lupin because he really had been a great Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and she and Harry both had a very shaky grounding in that subject because their first two professors had really _not_ been good teachers, and telephones really weren't difficult to use at _all_. And Harry might also like some chocolate frogs. 

And Sirius, after spending ten minutes ranting about the parsimonious, stupid, cruel, animal-abusing, heartless, mentally negligible Dursleys, who would get what was coming to them just as soon as Harry no longer needed the protection of his blood relatives, had laughed and said he thought Professor Lupin had a fan. 

So they had installed the telephone, with rather more difficulty than Hermione had led them to expect, and sent the number to Harry and Hermione both. They had gotten very little use out of it, though, as those accursed Dursleys apparently disapproved of Harry using the telephone. Sirius had contacted Harry on his birthday, but had been able to talk with him for less than ten minutes before the line went dead. Harry's letter the next day – the last one Sirius had gotten before this recent calamity – had explained that Uncle Vernon had yanked out the plug and gotten a tad upset. He suggested that they wait for _him_ to call _them_ rather than vice versa – he could ring them up when the Dursleys were out of the house. But apparently the Dursleys had been sticking close to home, thereby proving themselves great nuisances. Didn't the wretches have any social life? What business did they have always being in their own house?

And that, Remus thought, explained quite well why neither of them was particularly familiar with the tellyphone sound. But Sirius had remembered it – even though it was probably only Hermione, calling up to inquire just how one _did_ deal with Cornish pixies. 

Remus reached the door of the parlor in time to see Sirius trip spectacularly over the ottoman, somersault oddly over the coffee table, and snatch the tellyphone up in the middle of its third ring. "Hullo?!" he demanded, rather louder than necessary. "Who's there?"

And then his gaunt face overspread with such an expression of relief, thankfulness, and joy that Remus felt his heart ache oddly. He had not seen Sirius look that happy for approximately fourteen years. 

"Harry!" Sirius cried, dropping his wand and clutching at the talking part of the telephone with both hands, almost as if he was afraid it would vanish. "Harry – oh, God, _Harry!_"

Remus's knees suddenly went limp; he had to clutch at the doorframe for support. For a moment he rested his forehead against the cool wood, breathing out a wordless prayer of thankfulness. Sirius was pouring a torrent of demands into the Muggle calling device, demanding to know if Harry was all right, if he was free, if he was all right, where he was, and especially if he was all right. Remus straightened and flicked his wand at the telephone, increasing the volume of the noise coming out. Sirius winced and jerked it away from his ear.

" – _fine_, Sirius," Harry was saying, his voice sounding exhausted and stressed through the telephone's distortion. "Really. Only I don't know exactly where I am, just that it's some little town called Chestershire."

"We'll come and get you," Sirius said firmly, dropping to one knee and recovering his wand. He summoned a pile of Muggle maps as he added, "Couldn't you find a fire and – oh, I suppose you haven't any Floo powder."

"No," Harry said ruefully. "I don't even have my wand. I don't even have my _shoes_. That's why I couldn't get any Muggles to take me to London or back to Little Whinging. I'm in my pajamas. But, listen, Sirius -"

Sirius was manifestly _not_ listening. He had gone into full planner mode. "We'll find any towns named Chestershire, Harry, and apparate there immediately. Where can you wait for us? Is there some park we'd be able to find? Or –"

"I _can't_ wait here in this town." Harry's voice was beginning to sound strained. "And we've got to get this conversation over. I – er – I broke into a Muggle house to use their 'phone, but they could get back any time. I'll be waiting – well, listen, Sirius, I've got to tell you something." He took a deep breath, and Remus felt an odd chill of foreboding. "It's – it's about my dad."

Sirius stiffened, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on his wand. "Harry –"

"He's alive," Harry said quickly. "He's with me. Well, I mean, he escaped with me, and I –"

"That's not your father, Harry." Sirius seemed to be doing an unusually good job of controlling himself, Remus noted, numbly. He moved toward the telephone. "It's not James."

For a few moments, there was silence on the other side of the line. "Yes, it is," Harry finally answered, sounding very young and uncertain. "I know it seems impossible, but –"

"Listen, Harry, you don't understand." The strain was beginning to get into Sirius's voice now. "That – is – not – James. It's a Death Eater trick."

"That's what I thought," Harry replied, sounding more sure of himself. "But I was wrong. It really is him. I can't explain right now, Sirius, but it is. He's alive and – well – he got hurt while we were getting away. I left him –"

"James is _dead!_" Sirius shouted suddenly, and Harry's voice stopped. "He's dead, Harry! James is dead – James has been dead for fourteen years! Dead people can't live again – God knows we all wish they could, but they can't! _Your father is dead!_ That – that _thing_ you think is him is one of Voldemort's plots – he's trying to get at you, Harry, but you can't believe it! It's –"

"I know what I'm talking about!" Harry's voice screamed out of the telephone. "It's my dad! Why can't you just _believe_ me for once?! I'm not insane and I'm not confunded and it's my dad and he's hurt and the Death Eaters could be after us for all I know and why can't we argue about this once we're _safe?_"

Remus plucked the telephone from Sirius's hand. Screaming matches would get them nowhere. Sirius let him take it and collapsed onto the edge of the sofa, clutching at his hair as if it were his only link to sanity. 

"Harry, this is Professor Lupin," he said, as calmly as he could. "You're right – we don't have time to argue about this." 

"It's my dad," Harry repeated miserably, and Remus's heart contracted painfully. Harry really thought he had his father back. And they would have to be the ones who broke his happy dream. Voldemort deserved to scream in Azkaban forever for this.

"You have to trust us, Harry, when we say that we know it is not," he said gently. "Now, it shouldn't take us long to find Chestershire on the map. You _are_ still in England, aren't you?" he added anxiously. 

"They speak English," Harry answered dolefully, sounding badly shaken. 

"Good. Is there any easily-recognizable landmark in the town where you could wait for us without being picked up by the Muggle Hit Men – I mean, the Muggle police?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain. I – I do trust you and Sirius, but I know it _is_ my dad, and I had to leave him back in the forest. I'm going back to him to wait. He's unconscious," Harry added with unusual coldness, "so if you're afraid he's a Death Eater planning to kill me, you don't have to worry. He hasn't got a wand, anyway."

Sirius bounded to his feet and made a valiant effort to yank the telephone away from Remus. "Stay where you are, Harry, please! Don't go running back into danger – stay in the town," he begged. 

Harry took an audible deep breath before answering. "If you thought it was my – if you really thought it was James, Sirius, wouldn't you want to make sure he got rescued too? I'm sure it's him, and he got me out of there. I can't risk letting him get left there. He's _hurt_, Sirius."

"I don't want _you_ to get hurt," Sirius told him desperately. "Please, Harry. Just wait until we get there."

"Sirius is right," Remus chimed in. "We can go … er … check on – him – when we get there. Professor Dumbledore would want you to wait for us, Harry."

He could hear Harry breathing harshly on the other end for some moments before the boy answered. "I'll be waiting in a big stand of pines round behind a yellow cottage on Ram Drive. It's on the opposite side of the village from the road, two left turns past the church." And then he hung up. Sirius swore in dismay and glared down at the Muggle telephone. 

"How do you make this thing call him back?"

"I don't know," Remus muttered, and dropped into an armchair. "I just don't know, Sirius."

* * * * * 

Finding Chestershire proved to be easier than Remus had expected. Within fifty-three minutes of Harry's disturbing communication, he and Sirius had apparated to the side of the road less than half-a-mile away from the town. Sirius had been all for trying to appear right in the trees back of the yellow cottage, but Remus had vetoed the suggestion. Suppose some Muggle happened to be looking out of her window? How likely was it that she would take two grown men abruptly appearing in her garden with calm equanimity? 

So Sirius had sullenly agreed to the extra delay, and they had aimed for the woods right beside a small road south of the village. Unfortunately, the spot they had chosen was rather well-endowed with brambles and other painful underbrush, but a few discreet clearing charms created a pathway.

Within twenty-six minutes of their arrival in the woods, Remus, leading a large black dog on a leash, had strolled past a quaint little stone church, taken two left turns, and halted for a rest in front of a neat little yellow cottage on a road called 'Ram Drive.' He leaned against the white fence, casting an admiring eye at an even more adorable blue cottage across the way, and poked Sirius admonishingly with his toe. The animagus was straining to pull through the fence, and Remus, for one, intended not to alert any Muggles to their presence. The last thing any of them needed was for the Ministry to be called into this.

"Calm down, Padfoot," he muttered, kneeling down next to the enormous dog. "We're just going to walk down to that clump of bushes, and I'll slip James's – I mean, Harry's invisibility cloak on. I'm going to take the leash off, but you'd best stay with me, all right?"

Maybe everyone would have been too busy preparing lunch to bother with noticing a black dog and a man in worn and faded Muggle clothing scrambling over old Mrs. Van Walt's garden fence, but it wasn't really a risk Remus was eager to take. So, when the black dog leapt nimbly over old Mrs. Van Walt's garden fence and charged around her house, he appeared to be quite alone, and no one took any heed.

Remus sprinted after Sirius, faintly annoyed. Didn't the crazy dog have any idea of caution at all? And he was likely to give Harry heart failure, dashing around like that. He turned the corner of the cottage, dodged a rose trellis, and headed toward the stand of pines, his heart beginning to quicken nervously. If Harry wasn't here after all …

But Harry was there. Remus nearly tripped over Padfoot as the dog stopped abruptly, transfixed by the scene before them.

Harry was seated on the covering of fallen pine needles, half-hidden by the shade from the old trees, his head propped up against one dark trunk. Apparently, he was fast asleep. He looked tired and sick, and he was barefoot and clad in pajamas that looked as if they'd better fit that whale-like cousin of his – but that was not what made Remus's heart plummet sickeningly. 

Another person, equally sunk in slumber, was lying on the needles next to Harry, his head actually in Harry's lap. And, even from this distance, there was no mistaking the mop of black hair and the lines of the face.

"James," Remus whispered involuntarily, eyes widening in wonder and pain. At his side, Padfoot whimpered.

Remus caught his emotions back at the sound. No matter how much it might look like his lost friend, it was not James. James was dead and gone. This was a Death Eater – or, even worse, some other Dark thing of Voldemort. He had to keep a proper perspective, had to be the clear-headed one. This was not the time to mourn; this was not the time to have doubts. 

The air shifted beside him, and Remus turned to see Sirius rising to his feet, a human again. His face was twisted in a wild mixture of pain, anger, and longing as he stared alternately at James and Harry. "Prongs," he mumbled brokenly, hand twitching on his wand. "Oh, God …"

Remus put a hand on his friend's shoulder, halting him. "Sirius," he began, then swallowed and cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. Good heavens, he'd sounded as if he were about to break into tears. That would never do. "It isn't James, you know."

"But what if – what if we're wrong? He looks …" Sirius trailed off, biting his lip, and took several deep breaths, his shoulders shaking. His expression abruptly shifted into a sort of cold fury quite unlike himself. "I swear, Moony," he hissed, "someday they're going to pay for this."

Harry stirred against the tree trunk. Sirius started forward again, dropping down to his knees beside his godson as Harry opened bleary eyes in half-awake fear. For one second, the boy stared uncomprehendingly, then his face lit up in joy and relief. "Sirius!" he yelped, starting up. 

Sirius grabbed Harry into a grateful hug, and the teenager's face reddened in embarrassment. Remus watched for an instant, vaguely troubled that he was too disturbed by the pseudo-James-Potter to even feel happy that Harry was alive and safe. 

"Are you all right, Harry?" Sirius demanded, holding Harry out at arm's length to frown at him. "Are you hurt?"

Harry turned his head to smile at Remus, who felt ridiculously pleased that he'd been noticed. "Hello, Professor Lupin. I'm really happy to see you," he said sincerely. Turning back to Sirius, he added, with a strained grin, "Golly, I can't tell you how glad I am that the 'phone worked. I was scared I wasn't remembering the right number. And I've no idea how I could ever have thought of another way to get through to friends. Thank you ever so much for coming for me –"

"Are you all right, Harry?" Sirius repeated implacably. 

"I'm fine," Harry assured him hastily, then reddened. "Well, I mean, I'm really tired and I, er, burned my feet a little, but it's not bad and I'll be fine right away. Say, I lost my wand –"

Remus, still feeling as if his mind had been wrapped in cotton-wool, produced the wand from his pocket as Sirius shoved Harry back into a sitting position and started wrapping up his godson's obviously more-than-a-little burned feet in scraps of his own robe. Harry took his wand back, looking unutterably thankful, then glanced sideways at the unconscious man in the pine needles, his expression shifting back into worried determination. 

"Sirius," he began, with a pathetic mixture of hope and hesitation, "look – will you listen to me? This really is my –"

Sirius drew in an uneven breath and cut Harry off. "I don't want to hear it, Harry."

Harry carried on, his jaw set. "This really is my father. I know that's tough to believe, but – just look at him, Sirius! It's my dad!"

Sirius kept tying bandages around Harry's left foot, and made no answer. Remus forced himself to move forward, dropping to his knees beside Ja – beside the imposter. Keeping one hand on his wand – just in case – he peered down at the all-too-familiar face. It really did look just like James's face – James's face drawn with pain, and rather thinner and paler than it ought to be, however. And hardly a day older since the last time Remus had seen him. Somehow, that made it easier to believe that it was all a trick. Carefully, Remus plucked the glasses off of the man's face and turned them over, studying the frames.

"These aren't James's spectacles," he told Harry. 

"I know," Harry answered, sounding annoyed. "But that doesn't mean anything. When – stop!" Remus froze in place, his hand an inch above James's right wrist. "Don't touch his shirt, Professor," Harry ordered. "Voldemort charmed it into a portkey. I don't really think it still works, but I've had to be careful not to touch it." He grimaced eloquently. "That made it awfully difficult to get him here, of course, but …"

"A portkey?" Sirius demanded. "Voldemort? Harry, what exactly happened last night? We talked to the Dursleys –"

Remus interrupted. The record had to be set straight, here, for everyone's sake. "_I_ talked. _You_ threatened and ranted and turned Vernon Dursley into a slug." 

Harry's eyes lit up. "You did? You turned Uncle Vernon into a slug? Did you change him back?" he added anxiously.

"Oh, yes," Remus assured him. "And cast memory charms, so if you go back to them, they shouldn't remember any of it."

Harry sighed faintly in relief. "Oh, good."

"Anyway," Remus said abruptly, "we need to get back to Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore needs to know about this, and it's not safe here."

"You're right," Harry agreed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "We came on foot all the way from the house where Voldemort was, so I'll bet we're still really close."

"Do you remember where it is?" Sirius asked, excited. "If we could find and search one of Voldemort's bases –"

"Never mind that now." Remus extracted a box from his pocket, hoping that his practical-and-focused-in-any-crisis voice would suffice to keep Sirius calm until they had Harry in the infirmary and the James-imposter locked up. "This portkey will take us to Hogwarts. Sirius, put the cloak in your pocket. Wait a moment – we've all got to touch it at the same time."

"What about my –" Harry began.

"We won't leave him here," Remus assured him. "I'll just put one of his hands on the portkey. Sirius, hold the box." Very, very careful not to touch the shirt sleeve, he lifted the unconscious man's hand.

And instantly dropped it again, with a startled exclamation. Sirius had his wand out before Remus had even finished blinking. "What?"

"It felt –" Remus turned the hand over on the ground, and had to turn away for a moment, feeling queasy at the sight. The palm of the man's hand was burnt even worse than Harry's feet – it looked just as if it had been seared with a hot iron. For a very long time. The skin was almost completely gone.

"The floor was charmed," Harry said, his voice soft and strained. "That's how my feet got burned. I stepped on it after we knocked the door down. And his shoes didn't help either. So he turned into his animagus form, and –"

Wait. That didn't make sense at all. "Animagus form?" Remus and Sirius both demanded sharply. 

Harry lifted his chin, eyes flashing. "Yes. He can turn into Prongs, just like you told me he could, Professor. He looked just exactly like the Patronus I conjured, too. So it is him. If it was just some Death Eater using a spell to make him look like my dad, he wouldn't be able to turn into a stag, now would he?"

Remus's heart flipped over. Sirius was wide-eyed, looking half-convinced. "No, that wouldn't work at all. Maybe it is –"

"All that that means, Sirius, Harry," Remus cut in miserably, "is that it isn't Polyjuice Potion like we hoped it was. It's something worse."

Harry turned, frowning. "But doesn't polyjuice require a bit of the person you turn into?"

"Er, I suppose you haven't read the _Daily Prophet_ lately," Sirius muttered. "Someone broke into the cemetery, and … well … and we – Dumbledore and everyone – figured that Death Eaters had stolen James's body." He took a deep breath. "We ought to have told you, Harry. I'm very, very sorry for this whole mess."

Harry's nose wrinkled up. "That's kind of sick. But they didn't steal his body, anyway, and it can't be polyjuice because it really is my dad. There was a spell," he added eagerly, "that Voldemort cast on the night when – when my mum got killed and I got this scar. Dad wasn't really dead at all. His body was just kind of in stasis, or something, while his mind was off somewhere else. There was a kind of linking spell that didn't work quite right, I think, so when – when Wormtail did that potion thing and Voldemort came back, that made Dad's mind go back to his body. And Voldemort – yes, I remember now, he said something about the Daily Prophet. He must have read that – and I guess he caught Dad somehow, and turned his shirt into a portkey, and then Dad said something about Wormtail, I remember – he didn't know he was the traitor – and he turned up at the Dursleys' house, so when I grabbed his arm it took us both to Voldemort's basement. So, you see," he finished pleadingly, "it makes sense, really. I know dead people can't come back to life, but he wasn't dead."

Sirius looked a bit stunned. "So, you're saying – he wasn't dead?"

Remus found himself wishing, desperately, that it was true. There were few things in life he'd like more than to know that Harry had his father back – than to know that James was alive again, to talk with James and be told that he, James, hadn't really ever believed that he, Remus, was the spy at all – that it had all just been a mistake, a horrible mistake. 

But the things one wants the most are the things that one can never really have. He'd known _that_ for years. 

"Harry," he said gently, "I know it sounds plausible, but think about it. Why would Voldemort cast a spell that sent James into some kind of coma instead of killing him?"

Harry's face froze. For a moment, Remus was surprised at the depth of the miserable, frightened realization on Harry's face. "Harry?" Sirius asked anxiously, reaching out to rest a hand on the boys' shoulder. He looked almost as unhappy as Harry did – as if he'd been given hope, then had it snatched away again – but he was still eager to comfort his godson if he could. "Are you all right?"

"No," Harry whimpered, burying his face in his hands. "Please – can't you just believe me? It's true, it _is!_" 

Sirius's dark eyes flicked up, meeting Remus's gaze over Harry's bent head. "Let's get back to Hogwarts," he said dully. "Dumbledore said to hurry."

Remus nodded, and turned back to the – well, obviously it couldn't be a Death Eater if it could turn into a stag. It had to be James in one sense, at least … but that only meant that Voldemort had been practicing some extremely dark magic. When they got back to Hogwarts, he'd have an awful lot of research to do. Perhaps Severus would help – he'd be likely to know just how far Voldemort had gone with the dark arts. Chances were, now, that it was some kind of corpse-animating spell … an awfully good one, apparently. The question was what the mind was like – and what had happened to the soul. And, of course, what spells Voldemort had cast to control the … James. 

He wondered, briefly, if Voldemort was mortal to werewolves. At the moment, the thought of ripping out the bastard's throat with his wolf-fangs seemed terribly appealing …

"Moony," Sirius muttered. "Hurry up, will you?"

Remus ripped himself away from his thoughts and lifted James's hand. "All together," he repeated, and Harry straightened up, looking feverish and unutterably miserable. They all laid their hands on the portkey inside the box; they jerked together as the magic seized them, and Remus briefly wondered if anyone was touching James's shirt, and, if so, what touching one portkey while under the influence of another would do. Hopefully, it didn't involve splinching.

Then they were tumbling into Dumbledore's study, staggering on his carpet in a rather undignified manner. Remus lowered James's body to the ground as Sirius deposited Harry in a chair, then they both turned. 

Fawkes was on his perch, studying them through bright eyes. At his side, Albus Dumbledore stood, snowy eyebrows arched in momentary surprise as he looked down at James Potter's unconscious body. With his "Enigmatic Smile Number Seven" firmly in place, he lifted his gaze to Remus and Sirius.

"I see we have a great deal to talk about, gentlemen."

* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER NINE

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Questions and Comments:

Alas, I am unable to answer everyone's review … time & space constraints, don't you know. Wish I could, but I can't. Lots of thanks to all those whose reviews I didn't address individually – I can't tell you how much I appreciate the time that you take to review.

Kitana: Thanks! Glad you like the wandless-magic bit. Yes, it would indeed have been difficult for Harry to hitch a ride – a barefoot, limping boy in pajamas, along with an unconscious, badly-burned man, at 4:00 AM … not many people would leap at the chance to pick them up. Oh, yes, Snape will indeed be showing up … and James certainly isn't going to smile kindly and pat Snape on the back for making Potions class a misery for Harry. I rather like Snape, so hopefully the scenes where they meet won't be difficult to write …

Renai: I'm so happy you think my characterization is good! I really struggle with it sometimes, so I'm delighted that it seems to be turning out all right. No classes, I'm afraid … my lectures would sound something like, "And … er … just … think like the person you're trying to write. Ought to work, don' t you think?" Oh, dear, now I can't get that picture out of my head … James and Harry careening down the halls of Voldemort's hideaway leaving trails of sofa-cushion-stuffing behind them, while Voldemort shouts after them that they're not going to be getting any Christmas presents from Granddad if they keep acting like irresponsible brats …

Tarawen: Thank you! Yep, they wouldn't have gotten much help from either Muggles or wizards – not that it would be easy to hitch a ride on a broomstick anyway, I suppose. I was originally planning to have the Sirius-and-Remus-come-and-get-them part in Chapter Eight, but it was getting awfully long. Ah, well.

Ari: Thanks! Why did Voldie let them go? Ah … that's the question, all right. All will be revealed … later. _Much_ later. Heh heh heh …

kaydee: Wow – what a lovely long review! Oh, yes, Voldemort is indeed a dastardly fiend, up to many things. :^) Glad you think it's reuniony and funny! I think I mentioned, in an answer to someone else's review, that I should have put in something about Harry's scar hurting. My own interpretation of the books is that Harry's scar hurts when Voldemort is in a murderous mood – and he really wasn't during much of their little interview. Still, it was a lamentable oversight on my part. Sorry! Ouch, yes – sold him and his family to his family. That does make it a bit hard for them, eh? "Yeah, guys, meet my granddad – he killed my mum. Tried to kill me, but we've put that behind us. Now we're all one BIG HAPPY FAMILY! Whaddya _mean_, you think I'm under the Imperius curse?" Sorry, I seem to have digressed. The fact that Peter is a traitor hasn't really sunk into James's mind yet – he has a distressing tendency to avoid thinking about things that are painful. Later, he may well be very angry – or he may not. Hmmm, I'm not really sure how "Lucius" is pronounced. Anyone else have an idea? I know it's a roman name. Personally, I think of it as "loosheyus" – darn, it sure looks a lot less elegant like that – but I daresay that's not the right pronunciation. My name? Well, I came across it while I was reading the dictionary. I was actually skimming through randomly writing down words to use in a sci-fi story I was working on, but I happened upon "Triskelion" and paused to read the entry since the word looked reeeally neat. I'm something of a word person – am in the process of inventing a language for a different story, want to be a philologist like Tolkien – and I just thought it was a cool word. Don't ask why. It means a three-armed symbol, and I chose it as my ff.n name partly because I like it and partly because "Triskelion" ended up being the title of a fantasy novel-type-thing I'm working on … it's the symbol on the flag of the main characters … er, never mind. It's not an animal. :^) Pretty obscure word, in fact. 

Nicky: That's a very good guess! Voldemort did indeed put some extra spells on James … but that's a story for another chapter. :^)

Ice: Wow – thank you! I'm really flattered. 

Jeva: Thank you! Long reviews … *blissful sigh.* :^) So much fun to read! Sure hope you liked this chapter …

Sailor Hylia: What compliments! Thank you so much. There's nothing that delights an author's heart quite as much as appreciation of … er … well, the said author's sad attempts at witticisms. Anyway – glad you liked it! Hmm … in reference to your comments concerning the Marauders & Resurrected!James: it seems to me that, what with the war and everything, it would take a **lot** of solid proof to convince RL & SB that JP was really back. I think Remus might actually be *harder* to convince than Sirius – the fact that he knows more about the Dark Arts might just mean that he knows more about the impossibility of getting people back from the dead unchanged, and the possibilities of kinda-sorta getting them back … all wrong. Guess I'm not explaining that too well, am I? Hmm. It would, I think, be fun and interesting to try to redeem Voldemort, but I'm not going to give away whether or no that's actually part of my plot … OK, I admit it, it isn't. I'd like to, but … well … doesn't work. Sigh.

Storm Witch R.D.: I'm confused! Why are you reviewing Chapter Two again … ? ;^) Just a joke. Thank you for the review! Yep, you're quite right – the chapter titles are much better now. Thank you so much for the tip-off that I'd messed up with that … whew. It really did look bad, didn't it? Wow … I can't tell you how happy all of your nice comments make me. I'm so glad you think parts of it are realistic. Sure! Feel free to use anything from any of my stories that you want. After all – this is fan fiction. Technically, it all belongs to J.K.R. anyway, right? :^) Mmm, yes, they might have been a little too calm, though it seemed to me that Harry wasn't one to completely lose it in a crisis. And, yes, I swear that I will find time to read and review "Jobberknoll Feathers." It was hard enough finding five minutes to finish this and post it! 


	10. Quarrels

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said.  "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does.  Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

_Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the __Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer:  J. K. Rowlings wrote _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.  Then she wrote the next three Harry Potter books.  Now, she's writing __Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.  But she's taking a very, very long time to do it.  So we fan-fiction writers are playing with her characters.  But we acknowledge that they belong to her.  We aren't making any money off of this, and we don't expect to, either.  We just wish she'd hurry up with Book Five.  So don't sue.    _

A/N:  I admit that this chapter's somewhat short and boring, but Triskelion is having a spot of trouble keeping the chapter outline straight … as expected.  Hopefully things will settle themselves out soon, but the characters are not cooperating. However, the plot should really start getting better now that the introduction is out of the way.

Yes, I know I'm the only author dumb enough to have a ten-chapter introduction.  Sorry.  And sorry this took so long to get out.  I got writer's block, and then ff.n stopped working …

Instead of blanket thanks this time, I've decided to say something to everyone's review down at the end of the chapter, even if it's just, "Hey, thanks!"  I'm trying to see just how much space that takes up...

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

CHAPTER TEN

_"…. For heaven's sake, Dumbledore - the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too - his tales are getting taller, and you're still swallowing them - the boy can talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he's trustworthy?" _

~ Cornelius Fudge, in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

The first five minutes were utter chaos, as Sirius shouted for Harry to be taken to the infirmary immediately and Harry, equally loud, demanded that someone see to his dad's burns at once, while Professor Lupin tried, ineffectually, to tell Dumbledore why a supposedly dead man was sprawled on his office carpet.  However, once Dumbledore sent a house elf for burn salve and handed it out liberally to all scorched, crisped, sizzled, or otherwise burnt parties, everyone calmed down.

"Harry," Dumbledore said gravely, seating himself and assuming his gimlet stare.  "Please tell me everything that happened.  Assume we know only that you disappeared from the Dursleys' house."

Harry squirmed slightly in the large armchair, his gaze flitting nervously between his own bandaged feet and the prone body of his dad.  Professor Lupin was tending to him – admittedly with a carefully bland mask that didn't quite succeed in hiding his reluctance for the task – and he was still definitely out cold.  Which meant that Harry was left to explain all by himself.

And he didn't much like it.

"Well, I couldn't sleep," he said slowly, and took it from there.  Sirius kept trying to interrupt from where he crouched beside Harry's armchair, but Dumbledore waved him back into silence every time.  Desperate to be believed, Harry reproduced as much of his father's actual conversation as he could, trying to explain how he'd looked and acted exactly as a back-from-the-"dead" James would have.  

However, when he reached the part of the story where Voldemort appeared, he began floundering desperately.  He'd have to leave out the whole real reason why his dad was still alive.  There was just no other choice.   The very thought of what his – what Voldemort had said made him flush with shame and fear, and he found himself unable to look Dumbledore in the eye anymore.  But what else could he do?  He couldn't tell anyone about it – never, ever, ever.  No wonder the Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin!  If the wizarding world had reacted so very badly when it found out he could talk to snakes, how much worse would it be if they found out _why he could do it?  Ron and everyone would hate him if he told them – hate him and be even more afraid of him than they had been when they'd thought he was Slytherin's Heir._

That thought brought hysterical laughter welling up in his throat.  If his grandfather was Slytherin's Heir, what did that mean _he was?  Maybe Justin and Ernie hadn't been that far off after all! _

Sirius put a hand on his arm, staring up at him with worried eyes, and Harry quelled his untimely breakdown.  He stalled for time briefly, getting a drink of water, then launched into the technical explanation of how James had never died in the first place, leaving out all explanation of why Voldemort had decided to cast such an idiotic spell in the first place.  He ended by attributing a seven-eighths-invented closing speech to Voldemort – a safely unclear mixture of threats and … more threats.  

But when he began skipping to the escape plan, Dumbledore interrupted gently.  "Is that all Voldemort said, Harry?"

"More or less," Harry mumbled, plucking at the covering of the armchair, then straightened his shoulders and tried to look less shifty.  "He – he threatened my friends a whole lot, too.  If I kept, you know, thwarting him and so on.  But that's all, really.  So, er, after he left, Dad and I talked a little more …"

He gave them an edited and extremely abbreviated version of that second conversation between him and James, carefully leaving out all references to Voldemort, Slytherin, prophecies, and all other things pertaining thereto.  When he started in on the escape plan, doing his best once more to repeat everything either of them had said, Professor Lupin turned around and began paying attention more obviously.  By the time he'd reached the stairs, Lupin and Sirius were both frowning in confusion and worry.

"Sounds like James –" Sirius began.

At the same moment, Lupin muttered, "Animagus form and wandless magic.  That's –"  Dumbledore turned a mildly reproachful look on them, and both men closed their mouths instantly.

Harry plowed desperately onward.  He'd done Alohomora on the door, and  he could probably find the house again.  When they'd found a road, his dad had transformed back and passed out, and he, Harry, had discovered the burns on his dad's hands and feet, and he hadn't known what to do.  Then he'd remembered that Sirius had gotten a 'phone installed at Professor Lupin's house, so he'd started off to find a Muggle house.  He hadn't been able to carry his dad, because he'd been scared to touch the charmed shirt.  So he'd managed to use a levitation spell without a wand to carry him a little ways, but fortunately Chestershire was pretty close to the road.   And then he'd waited and fallen asleep.  And that was all.

Finished, he stared hopefully at Dumbledore while Sirius muttered anxiously at his side.  "Wandless magic at your age?  Harry, you ought to know better – that's dangerous – you could have knocked yourself out or worse – as soon as this conversation is over, you're going straight to the infirmary, you hear?"

Dumbledore folded his thing hands on his desk, no sign of a smile at all on his face.  Harrys' heart flipped over nervously.  "Harry," the Headmaster said slowly, looking careworn and tired, "are you sure that your escape happened exactly as you recounted it?"

Harry nodded slowly.  "Yes – I'm sure."

"Thank you for your very detailed account, then," Dumbledore told him wearily.  

"You believe me, don't you?" Harry begged, casting dignity to the wind.  "It's my dad!"

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said.  "I believe everything you've told me about your father."

Harry frowned.  He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling that careful turn of phrase meant that the Headmaster was not exactly implicitly trusting his rendition of the Voldemort Affair.  "You believe it's my dad?" he persisted hopefully.

Dumbledore's blue eyes remained on him, ostentatiously _not twinkling behind the old spectacles.  "Are you sure you've told me everything, Harry?"_

Harry met his eyes stubbornly, setting his jaw.  "Yes.  Everything.  I've told you everything."

Dumbledore sighed then, a grieved sound, and looked down at James's body.

"My question," Harry reminded him.  "Do you – is it –"

Dumbledore rubbed sadly at his crooked nose, then nodded.  "Yes, Harry."

Professor Lupin made a strangled, startled noise.  "Headmaster!  You can't –"

At the same moment, Sirius cried, "You mean it _is James?"  Harry's heart lifted happily; Sirius, at least, really, truly wanted James back.  The eager hope in his voice left no question about it._

Dumbledore carried on over the interruptions.  "I believe there is an excellent chance that this is James Potter – in one way or another."

Professor Lupin's shoulders slumped, and Sirius blinked, looking like a child whose Christmas had just been replaced by a general holocaust.  Harry's heart crept glumly toward his toes.  "You mean," Sirius said slowly, "that – that you think Voldemort –"

"Harry, I think you should go to the infirmary now," Dumbledore said mildly.  He continued as Harry struggled to give voice to the furious indignation that such a ridiculous suggestion warranted.  "Your godfather is right, Harry.  Using wandless magic for the first time – in such a large amount, and at your age – is dangerous.  You're tired and you need to rest."

"I'm not tired!" Harry protested indignantly.  "Dad was hurt worse than I was – he's the one who needs to go to the infirmary."

"You _are tired."  Dumbledore stared at him with gentle implacability.   "You may not realize it, but you are extremely tired.  If you don't rest right away, you stand an excellent chance of passing out and becoming very sick indeed.  Go to Madame Pomfrey, Harry.  We aren't going to do anything drastic without you.  Remus, would you fetch Filius Flitwick here, please?"_

Professor Lupin left at once, but for the next ten minutes, Harry futilely resisted the inevitable.  He stubbornly refused to budge from the armchair until the others saw the light and admitted that this was James Potter, in flesh and in spirit, alive and marginally well.

The discussion terminated when Sirius apologetically picked Harry up and carried him out of Dumbledore's office, staggering only a little.  "You can't carry me!" Harry protested indignantly, trying to get a hand to his wand.

"You're not that heavy," Sirius muttered, nearly banging Harry's head on the wall as he staggered down the stairs.  "Don't those Dursleys feed you?"

Harry was too upset to care that someone had notice his weight loss.  "Put me down, Sirius – you can't go out around the castle!  What if someone saw you?"

Sirius mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like "Don't care," but he set Harry down on the next-to-lowest step, glaring at him.  "Fine.  But you go straight to the infirmary, or I'll hunt you down and carry you there, fifteen years old or not."

Harry scowled back at him and staggered up, wincing.  He teetered, and Sirius caught his arm.  "Never mind," he sighed, and put a levitating spell on Harry.  Harry opened his mouth to protest, but halted when Sirius pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket.  

Floating – and heartily embarrassed by it – Harry waited silently for the infirmary doors to appear as his godfather quickly navigated the empty halls of Hogwarts.  Sirius set him down before actually going in, much to Harry's relief, since he might have been hard-put to explain to Pomfrey why he was hovering six inches above the ground.  She was waiting for him when he entered; apparently Dumbledore had already called her.  Within three minutes, she had him tucked into one of the infirmary beds, swallowing a sleeping draught.

He drifted off before he could start analyzing the day's events.

* * * * *

"I'm quite willing to wake him up if you want me to."

Harry felt his eyelids flicker at the familiar voice, but remained buried in the warm, friendly darkness.  No need to worry about the outside world quite yet.

"No, no, that's not necessary.  He needs his rest, poor chap.  Besides, he isn't going to like it very much."

Harry's semi-comatose mind classified the new voice as _Professor Lupin – Important Person.  He ignored the wakeup call and burrowed his head back into the soft, clean pillow.  Absently, he noted that there were no bedsprings digging into his back.  How nice._

"He wouldn't need his rest if he hadn't worn himself out unnecessarily," the first voice sniffed.  "Doing spells without a wand!  A fifth-year student!  What is Hogwarts coming to?  Bless his heart," the voice added fondly, and Harry's mind firmly assigned the statement a designation of _Embarrassing – Ignore.  "And you don't look too good yourself, Remus," the voice continued briskly.  "I recommend that you take some rest as soon as you can." _

The voice labeled _Lupin muttered something that sounded polite but weary, and the first voice receded into the background, soon disappearing altogether, accompanied by the sound of a gently shutting door.  _

Unwillingly, Harry felt himself floating back toward wakefulness.  Someone leaned over the bed, and he automatically squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, huddling back into the mattress.  The someone sighed, and the tired voice said, "I'll leave him to you then, Padfoot.  Do try not to get too emotional, will you?"  A canine whine answered.  Footsteps faded toward the door; a brief gust of warmer air signaled the opening and shutting of the aperture.   

Something large bounded onto the foot of Harry's bed, and he slowly opened his eyes, squinting into the fuzzy light.  A bit of groping around brought his glasses to his hand; he settled them firmly on his nose and met the pale gaze of the enormous black dog currently residing on his blankets.

That brought him fully back to life.  One quick glance around proved that the room was unoccupied.  He scrambled into a sitting position, keeping his gaze on the dog.  "Sirius," he said anxiously, "where's –"

The dog vanished, to be instantly replaced by the tall, black-haired form of Harry's godfather.  

"– Dad?" Harry finished.

"Are you feeling better?" Sirius asked.  "Poppy healed your feet." Harry wiggled his toes surreptitiously under the blankets, pleased to note the entire absence of pain.  "You slept all afternoon and all night," Sirius added.

Harry fixed his best imitation of Professor McGonagall's most steely glare on his godfather, and repeated his question.  "Where's my dad?"

Sirius looked away, sighing.  "He's in a private room getting his burns looked after.  He's perfectly safe, if that's what you're worried about.  And – Harry – you know he's not really your dad."

Harry stared at his godfather's profile for a moment, wondering what chance he had of persuading Sirius that he knew what he was talking about.  Sirius looked back at him, concern obvious in his face, and Harry tried to smile.  But, somehow, he couldn't really look Sirius in the eye.

_You lied to him, you know, a little voice whispered in his mind.  __You lied to all of them.  What's he going to think when he finds out?_

_He's not going to find out, Harry retorted stubbornly, then squared his jaw.  "I'd like to see Dad, if that's quite all right," he said courteously.  _

Unexpectedly, Sirius leapt to his feet, kicking at the bedpost angrily.  "He's _not your dad, Harry!  Even Dumbledore agrees that you were lied to – that even if it is James, it isn't really!  Dumbledore says it's James – that it's his body and his mind, but it's not – not __him.  Because it can't be.  He's not all there – it's only a shell, only a trick. Why can't you listen to us?  You're only going to get hurt worse if you keep believing what that bastard Voldemort told you."  He swung about, clenching his fists in helpless rage.  "How dare he?" he stormed on.  "Of all the cruel tricks he could possibly have thought up –"  He broke off, suddenly too choked to speak, and dropped back down on the foot of the bed, shoving his hands into his hair.  "And now you're attached to him," his muffled voice continued, "and you're not going to believe anything we tell you, are you?  We're not just being stubborn and stupid and over-cautious, Harry.  You don't understand that there are ways – very awful ways – to resurrect dead things and make it seem that they're alive again.  There are books in the Restricted Section that tell all about it.  Remus was telling us about it yesterday while you slept – and technically he probably shouldn't even know about it either, but Remus always wanted to learn __everything, you know – because it's very, very dark magic, and he didn't want you to have to hear it.  But the things that are brought back that way aren't really alive, and they're bound to whoever created them."  A shudder shook him, but he went on, almost calmly, "And he went and did it to James.  Brought him back to serve evil.  I swear I'll rip his spine out with my bare hands and ram it down his throat."_

"Sirius –"

But Sirius plowed relentlessly on.  "They called Professor Flitwick – Dumbledore trusts him – and they spent hours doing tests on Ja – on _it, and there are Dark Magic signatures all over him that they can't figure out or dislodge.  Professor Flitwick says that one of the things seems to be a spell that hides other spells and makes them tough to take off, but it's impossible to remove itself.  He was frightfully perplexed about it for a while," Sirius added with a mirthless laugh, "because it's supposed to be almost impossible to cast and supposed to only work on people who trust the caster, but then Remus went and pointed out that if it was a necro-spell, of course the – __it – would trust its – the person who made it.  So they ended up deciding that that was the explanation, and that all the arcane bits were from the necro-spell because they had no idea what they were.  I suppose that's what academics always do."_

Harry crawled forward and put a hand carefully on Sirius's shoulder, beginning to dimly realize that this wasn't exactly a pleasant experience for his godfather either.  "You're just making yourself unhappy for nothing, Sirius," he said earnestly, sliding into a sitting position next to him, "because it really is my dad."

Sirius let out an inarticulate yelp of frustrated dismay and flung his arms out.  "Harry, haven't you listened to a word I said?" he demanded, turning his haggard face back toward Harry.  "It's not James!  It can't be!  I may not be the most logical person in the world, but even I can tell when something is impossible.  Do you think I don't _want it to be him?  I'd die myself if it could bring him back!  Ever since this whole nightmare started, I've been trying to think of a way that you could be right, and I've tried to get them, any of them, to admit that there's some way that James could have – spontaneously been resurrected, or never been dead, but there isn't a way, Harry!  I suggested Veritaserum, and they pointed out that even if he believes he's James Potter, that doesn't mean he's not under Voldemort's control.  I suggested breaking the spells, and they said they didn't know how.  Even that spell you said Voldemort used – Remus said he'd look for it, but he's never heard of anything like it.  And he's right, Harry – Voldemort was lying to you, because he'd never have cast a thing like that on James, no matter how nasty the place it sent James to would be.  There's just no reason.  It doesn't make sense.  This whole damned affair doesn't make sense!"  He leapt up again and began pacing angrily about the small room, seething with anger and pain._

Harry watched him, his heart sinking miserably.  If Sirius wouldn't believe it was James Potter, who would?

"Why can't you just believe me?" he asked petulantly.  "I may only be a kid, but I'm not an idiot.  I know what I'm talking about.  Don't you trust me?"

Sirius came back, staring at Harry with a sort of pleading misery.  "I trust you, Harry," he assured his godson in a wavering voice.  "We all trust you.  That's not the point – you've been lied to.  It's not that we think you're untrustworthy."

_You are, of course, Harry's mind informed him, and Harry fought back a rather irrational surge of guilt.  _

"But, Harry," Sirius continued, "we are older than you, and therefore we know more – well, some of us do.  I wouldn't be willing to swear to that for, say, Snape.   Or Bagman.  But I don't think you understand –"

"I do!" Harry cried furiously.  "I understand that Voldemort _could have lied to me and that my dad __could be a walking zombie, or whatever, and I understand that any of it __could be the way you think it is.  But it's not!"_

Sirius raised clutched at his hair again, then let his hands fall to his sides in wordless despair.  "I'm sorry, Harry," he said woefully, and started toward the window.

"Sirius," Harry called, embarrassed at sounding so plaintive, "could you – could you just listen to me for a minute?"

Again, Sirius turned and came back, this time looking penitent.  "I know I'm a wretched excuse for a godfather," he admitted, "but I do know that being able to listen is part of the job description.  I'll listen.  Feel free to tell me to shut up if I interrupt."

He sat down on the edge of the bed again, and Harry drew a deep breath before plunging into yet another effort to convince Sirius.

"Even if what you say is right, isn't it still my dad?  I mean – even if Voldemort did cast a bunch of dark spells on him?  That wasn't Dad's fault.  He didn't _ask to have his shirt portkeyed.  It's him – I mean, it isn't like he's some kind of mindless servant of Voldemort who looks like my dad and acts like my dad.  It's him.  He was alive.  Weren't you listening while I was telling Dumbledore all that stuff, Sirius?"_

"Yes," Sirius sighed, "and I was almost convinced.  But it has to be some plan of Voldemort's, Harry, or he would never have let you get away.  If your escape was that easy, then – well, he let you go.  So there's got to be a reason why, and it must be … what I said it was."

Harry swallowed and looked down at the coverlet.  So that was it.  They'd never believe him unless he told them the truth … and if he told them the truth, they sure as anything would never believe him again.  Life wasn't fair.

"Why'd Voldemort cast the cruciatus curse on him, then?" Harry demanded suddenly.  

Sirius started.  "You never mentioned that!" he exclaimed incredulously.  Harry gulped.  "Harry …"  Sirius peered at him, overlong bangs shadowing his eyes.  "Harry, what is it that you aren't telling us?"

"Nothing!" Harry hissed, jerking his gaze away.  "I just forgot to mention it, that's all!  Voldemort was running on about some prophecy that he'd be all powerful and Dad told him he was gullible and the prophesier was batty, and Voldemort cast crucio on him."

Sirius's eyes widened, then he shook his head.  "Voldemort probably planned that to get you to trust him."

"No," Harry insisted stubbornly.   "It's really James, and he was – he was alive and acting like himself – I guess so, anyway, because I don't know what he was like.   He felt things – he wasn't a zombie.  He looked miserable when I was telling him what happened to Mum, and he didn't know Wormtail was the traitor.  He thought Professor Lupin was dead and looked overjoyed when I said he wasn't.  He said Wormtail told him _you were the traitor and you were in Azkaban."_

Sirius looked away, mouth tightening with remembered pain.  Harry hesitantly went on, "When I told him you'd been put in Azkaban even though you didn't do anything, he got angry.  And shocked and horrified.  But he still could hardly believe Wormtail did it.  He said, 'How could he?' and then started going on about how it was all his fault, which is just nonsense."  Harry stared down at his own fingers, pulling at a loose thread on the blanket, remembering the rest of that awful conversation.  He couldn't repeat that part.  Never.  

"What else did he say?" Sirius's voice whispered suddenly, and Harry looked up to find Sirius's eyes fixed on him longingly.

"He asked how you were," Harry murmured.  "He wanted to know if you were still you.  Sirius, I mean.  And I kind of dodged the question because, you know … er … I mean …  Anyway, then he started demanding to know if Professor Lupin was all right, and then he was astonished that Snape was a professor.  And then he wanted to know if Hermione was my girl friend because I'd mentioned her, and then he asked if I was in Gryffindor, and he looked really happy when I said I was.  And then I said we should escape, and he said … he said …"  Harry searched his memory for the exact phrasing.  He was convinced that if he told Sirius enough, that painful doubt would vanish from his godfather's eyes and he'd have a grownup ally.  "He said he'd never heard a better idea except when Sirius said we should cast banishing charms on Acromantulas before they ate us.  And I want to hear that story sometime," he added.  "What were you doing in the Forbidden Forest?"

Sirius took time off from his hit-with-a-poleaxe expression to frown at Harry.  "How would you know that the Acromantulas live in the Forbidden Forest?" he asked sharply.  "I hope you're not going out there – it's terribly dangerous."

"You did it all the time," Harry retorted rebelliously.  "And anyway, it was in my second year.  And we got away fine.  Besides, their chief likes Hagrid."

Sirius raised his eyebrows.  "I don't think I want to know how you know that."

"Anyway," Harry said, trying to change the subject back to the important things, "I don't think a resurrected-zombie-thing could have acted like that."

"I don't know," Sirius mumbled.  "I don't know, Harry."  

"And he could turn into Prongs," Harry added hopefully.  Sirius continued staring at the ground, and Harry searched his memory for some other convincing remark.  "He mentioned you during our escape planning," he ventured hopefully.  "He said you always said that wizards relied on spells so much that Muggle ways of doing things sometimes worked.  That was how we got the idea of breaking the door down."

"I did say that a lot," Sirius admitted quietly.  "I did."

"And when he was explaining wandless magic," Harry said eagerly, "He said he'd explain it to me later cause there wans't time for him to go all Professor Moony on me.  And I asked if you made that phrase up and he said, yes, you got tired of listening –"  Harry broke off hastily.  He had a strong feeling that mentioning Wormtail to Sirius was a Very Bad Idea.  

"What else?" Sirius demanded, almost pleading to be convinced.  "What else did he say, Harry?"

"Got tired of listening to Remus explain things to Peter all the time," Harry muttered, and Sirius's eyes flashed with instinctive hatred.  

"When he smashed the door down," Harry plowed on frantically, "he, er, smashed it a little too hard.  It made a lot of noise.  And he said he said he'd had experience, not that he was _good at it.  Is that the kind of thing he would've said?"  _

Sirius shook himself out of his angry abstraction to nod briefly.  

"He was really truly worried when I burned my feet on the floor," Harry continued, hunting for a really clinching argument.  "And put a cooling charm on my feet.  And … er … oh, yes, after we discovered the floor was charmed, he was saying we had three options, and one of them was to sit in the hall and think of nasty things to say to Voldemort about the state of the doors in his base.   And he thought of summoning broomsticks and asked about the Firebolt, and he said Rita Skeeter was in Hogwarts when he entered – her last year – and he said he used to carry Mum in his stag form, and … and … you'd believe me if you'd been there," he finished lamely.  

Sirius's expression was shifting slowly from haunted pain to half-frightened determination.  "Maybe I would," he said softly, and stood up.  "Rest some more, Harry," he suggested, putting his hand out, then pulling it back.  "I – I'll talk to you again later today.  I'll be staying for a while."

Harry nodded, surprised at his own relief that Sirius wouldn't have to leave Hogwarts immediately.  "You'll think about what I said, won't you?" he asked.

Sirius nodded, already turning toward the infirmary doors.  "Yes.  Sleep well, Harry."  He switched back to his animagus form and, just as he had on the night of the Triwizard Tournament, ran the length of the floor and left the room.  Harry slid down to rest his head on his pillow, staring at the ceiling.  

Now he had to figure out a way to talk to his dad.  

* * * * *

Sirius ran lightly down the corridors, heading for the dungeons.  He had only one thought in mind.

He was going to talk to James.

No matter what Dumbledore said, he was going to talk to James, and he'd decide for himself whether it was really Prongs or not.   Harry was right – how could they possibly decide what it was unless they had really _talked to it?  If it was James … _

Preoccupied, Sirius barely dodged in time to avoid the tall figure half-running down the dark hallway.  He turned in time to see Severus Snape cast one furious, hateful look down at him before continuing his rapid progress up the hallway, clutching at his left arm as he went.  

Funny.  He hadn't even stopped to make a cutting remark.

Sirius turned his back on the Slytherin and continued to run.

He had a dead friend to meet.

END OF CHAPTER TEN

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Questions and Comments:

Yep, talking to everyone this time.  I've got a bad feeling about it, though … the comments section may end up being as long as the chapter, and, personally, I *hate* it when I'm happily reading a chapter, and it ends while the scroll bar is still HALFWAY UP!  So I'll just have to see how much space this takes up.

mahna mahna:  Thank you – and congrats on being the first to review.  :^)

Peacockgirl: Thank you!  I'm really pleased you think the characterizations are good.  Believe it or not, fear over being able to keep people in character kept me from writing fan fiction for _years.  I really have to work at it even now._

Almea:  I'm glad you clicked on it too!  Thank you, and I'm happy you like it.

Dusk's duet:  Welcome!  Thank you so much – authors are always overjoyed when people compliment the humor and the plot twists.  

Angie:  Thank you!

spangle star:  Ah, that's a good question.  Veritaserum was one of the first things they thought of, but then they realized that if Voldemort had used the most complex type of corpse-resurrecting spell, the mind would have semi-returned as well – and, in fact, the dead person might actually believe that they were alive again and retain all of their past memories.  The problem, of course, would be that they'd still be under the control of the person who'd raised them … and, depending on the strength of the spell, they'd start deteriorating sooner or later.  Mentally and physically both.  Sort of like a temporary resurrection.  It's rather complicated; I hope that the chapter above helped explain it.  Anyway, thanks!

Shei:  Thanks!  Yes, chats between various and sundry Marauders are in the works.   As a matter of fact, I think Chapter Twelve is going to be entitled _Padfoot and Prongs … _

Kitana:  No, it wasn't very chivalrous of Harry to break into the poor Muggle's house, was it?  :^)  But the poor kid was desperate … and he didn't break anything – well, except for the china vase by the door, but it was ugly anyway …  Oh, thank you for the compliment on Sirius and Remus.  I know I've done a good job when people say it's realistic, so … hurrah!  Maybe they are being a bit thick-headed, but you have to remember that they're older than Harry and realize a bit better just what they're up against.  As far as they're concerned, they need to be really, really, really careful not to let any of Voldemort's plots succeed, or there will be a repeat of the last war.  As far as Sirius is concerned, the last war never ended (since he was, after all, in Azkaban during the peace time), so he's still in The-Enemy-Could-Be-Anywhere mode.  And Remus just isn't good at believing good news any more.   And, of course, they're feeling severely stressed because the Ministry is obtusely refusing to acknowledge that You-Know-Who is back.  Ooooh, yes, it will indeed be interesting when (and if!) anyone finds out that the Potters are Riddles …  Well, there's some support for the Dumbledore-knows theory, and he does indeed know something about the whole affair, but not that James is Voldemort's son.  I did indeed wonder if he _would know, since Tom Riddle and Tom Riddle's wife were both students of his in the old days, but …  Tom Riddle didn't let the news of his marriage get out.  At all.  And I suppose Dumbledore can't very well be omniscient, somewhat to my disappointment.  "Enigmatic Smile #7" (the smiles were numbered by courtesy of one James Potter, incidentally) looks kind of like this:  ~-^    Hope that satisfies your curiosity.  :^)  Ah, yes, I like Snape too, and he'll be appearing quite a bit in the future (hopefully), but James really is __not going to be pleased that he's been picking on his son … of course, being the eminently fair-minded Gryffindor that he is, he may revise his opinion later.  You'll see!_

Ice:  Thank you!

Ionuin:  Aww, thank you.  Favorites section?  Wow …  Like your name, by the way.  :^)

Sailor Earth:  Ah, 'fraid I can't claim inspiration for "Pronglet."  It's from the wonderfulwonderfulwonderful stories of Iniga – specifically, I think it's from _Innocence Lost and Found, the first of the fifth-year trilogy.  I thought it was absolutely perfect, so I filched it.  Apologies all around.  About James's portkeyed shirt: I don't really know how portkeys work, since JKR hasn't yet released __How Magic Works: The First-Year Charms Textbook.  But I'm assuming that there's a way to create a portkey that's activated only when more than one person are touching it.  I mean, hey, Voldemort is an Evil Genius, so he should be able to do it even if no one else can …  Anyway, I think I did stick in something about Y-K-W "performing the countercurse on the binding charms" … at least, I hope I did.  Glad you like the story despite the implausible Dead-Parent-Lives-Again storyline.  :D  Hmm … don't really know of any Lily Lives Again stories.  I'm afraid I'm a trifle biased against them because, after all, we __know that Voldemort killed Harry's mother, whereas we don't __exactly know that he killed Harry's father.  And wasn't it Lily's sacrifice that let Harry live?  Right, ignore my pedantic little rant.  I had an awful time getting italics to work – this was the first of my stories where I figured it out.  I saved the document in Microsoft word as an .html file … and then it worked.  Sometimes.  I still don't quite understand it, but … hope that helps.  _

Kay:  Thanks!  And I really do appreciate readers who realize that writing takes *time!*  :^)

Jeva:  Yep, angst all around.  Oh, yes, I loved Madame M.'s accent too.  :D  Hmmm, Dumbly-dorr knows many things – some of which shall be revealed in Chapter … Thirteen, I think.  I considered the question carefully and ended up with the conclusion that he probably would not be in a position to know that James was a Riddle, sad as it was.  So … the plot trudges onward regardless.  Sure, ranting is good!  Your review did indeed make me a very, very happy author.  Keep up the good work!  Hey, you know, people get killed in real life!  Not that this has anything to do with real life, mind you, but … just remember, one of the categories this fic falls into _is "angst."  And what's more angstful than character death?  Be forewarned … there will be deaths.  Not necessarily of your favorite characters, but I'm making no promises.  Ah, yes, there will be character torture.  Plenty of mental, but … well, let's just say that when Grandaddy Voldie gets crossed, he doesn't hand out bon-bons … cruciatus curses are more in his line.  You reread it?  Oh, I'm so touched … Maybe I'll up that award to Greatly Honored Reader …  Hmm, so you do have an account … I'm hoping I'll find time to read your story someday, but I can't even keep up with the stories I've already started at the moment … sniffle.  It comes down to "Shall I surf ff.n, or shall I write more on NHP?  What would my reviewers want?  Yeah, I'll … just … go study computer science, or something …"  Anyway, thank you so much!_

Duets~:  Don't know whether or not you're the same person as Dusk's duet (?) but thank you!  Wow … what flattery.  :^)  I'm so happy you like the plot!  I had a hard time trimming it down to a manageable size: my biggest failing is that I want to have massive plots that are a bit too *much* like real life, and that involve hundreds of characters … which, needless to say, makes my stories very difficult to write.  Ergh.  Anyway, I'm happy you like James!  We don't know much about his personality, really, but I tried to hold onto the little clues from the book.  'Fraid some of his easy distractibility is due to the curses on him, though.  Normally, he doesn't have that much trouble hanging onto a coherent train of thought.  Draco will indeed be appearing soon – probably around chapter fourteen, which, I know, is a long way off – sorry.  And, being the let's-find-some-good-in-everyone person that I am, I won't treat him as a one-dimensional, none-too-bright bully.  I do believe he's incredibly immature, and thoroughly spoiled, but … well, he's going to be getting his own fair share of attention.  OK, maybe not as much attention as I'd like to give him, but I'm not going to be horrible to him.  Well, as long as mental anguish doesn't count as being 'horrible.'  :^)

BlinkMe182:  Does this count as early?  :D  Thank you!

Fyre Eye:  Thanks for your enthusiasm!

kaydee:  Thank you for the long, long, wonderful review!  Happy you thought it was funny.  I plan to keep the story from getting too dark (if I can), though humor is not my forte.  Sigh …  Wow!  I loved your little summary of Remus's character – that's pretty much the way I see him, too!  You stated the salient points really succinctly.  Er, I mean, I liked what you said.  Yeah.  Burns really are pretty terrible.  I've seen some really nasty ones … urgh.  That's why I didn't get into too much description – didn't want to make myself sick.  Well, Dumbledore believes Harry, of course – the question is whether what Harry believes is true or not.  He is (kind of) an emotionally unstable teenaged boy, after all, and, in this situation, he isn't really the best judge of what's a lie and what is not.  Oh, dear, now **I feel sorry for him.  Specific?  Nothing's wrong with being specific!  Authors get out of their seats and do little dances of joy around their rooms (or offices) when people compliment them on specific phrases.  Consider me to be prancing…  I _think I came up with it … I've read so many books that I don't really know, though.  I could well have seen it in some random book (or even fanfic) and subconsciously thought of it later.  Hmmm … the movie's that bad?  I haven't actually seen it yet, being more of a book person myself.  Guess I'm like you … when I do go to see movies made out of books, I tend to come away and spend hours complaining – you should have heard me going on about the wizard's duel and the cave troll in __The Fellowship of the Ring.  Stupid.  I think I confused myself when I was going on about the pronunciation of Lucius.  Basically, I guess what I was trying to say was that I thought it was pronounced like 'looshus,' only perhaps with the ending of "serious."  Like 'Sirius.'  Yeah.  Um, read Sailor Hylia's review.  The Order of the Phoenix – yes, I rather think it's some kind of decoration, myself.  Impossible to say, though.  It would make sense either way …  Anyhow, thanks again!_**

heehee:  100 billion stars – wow … thank you!  Yeah, I know my summary's pretty bad, but you should have seen the original summary … it was something dreadful like "Harry gets the shock of his life and finds out a dark secret about his father … who happens to be alive …"  :^)

Hex:  Whoa, slow down!  I'm writing as fast as I can!

WeasleyTwinsLover1112:  Thank you!  

Harriet:  :^)  Triskelion would like to express thanks for the appreciation of the unintended touch of humor and say, "Thank you!"

Endriago Luna:  Thank you!  Sirius and Remus will be featuring prominently in future chapters … well, as prominently as they can, since one's a werewolf and the other's a convict-on-the-run-or-in-hiding-depends-on-the-time-of-day-really.  I do like your new name.  :^D  Sounds neat!  Well, I'm not entirely certain what's up with the long reviews … must be because I said how much authors like them.  :^)  Don't discourage the reviewers!

Alana:  Thanks!  By 'Alvo,' do you mean Dumbledore?  If so, how much he knows will come out in Chapter Thirteen.  He knows more than Harry thinks, but the poor guy can't be expected to know _everything.  _

Sailor Hylia:  You have my deepest sympathy – and my deepest thanks, as well, for taking the time to review even though you're so busy.  Hmm – what's your story about?  Will it be posted soon?  And, er, I do hope that comment about 'people not being mad,' didn't mean that you're mad that I write so slowly … I do the best I can, really!  Thanks for the comments on Remus, too – happy you don't think I'm doing him all wrong.  Whew!  And thanks for the tip on 'Lucius.'  I haven't seen Gladiator (stayed home so that Certain People who were deemed Too Young to see it would not get hurt feelings when _all the Big People went off to the movie theatre …) so … double thanks!  And if I run into difficulties with names in the future, I'll be sure to contact you.  :^)  _

Ariana Deralte:  Thank you!  Yeah … the Potters are in a fix.  "Well, you see, Sirius, Voldemort let Dad live because he's my grandfather – Voldemort, I mean, not my dad.  Er … that is to say … I'm not evil!  Gah!  Point that wand somewhere else!  Grandpaaaaa!"  Don't think it'd go over too well …

Dark Shadows:  Oh, thank you!  I was aiming for morbid.  :^)

Rain:  Really?  Cool!  Thank you!

summersun:  He'll be waking up soon (as soon as I manage to fit him in, that is to say … Chapter Twelve, I think), and veritaserum wouldn't really work.  I mean, it would prove that James is James, but it wouldn't necessarily prove that James is alive and well and free from control by Voldemort the Ultimate Evil.  Poor James.

Quare Bungle Rye:  Thank you for the nice comments.  Wow … I'm really pleased you think it's that good.  I'm afraid it'll be a while before I get to the ending, but I have a bad feeling that the characters are going to force it to be sad.  I mean, technically I have it all planned out, but the details (you know, little things like who's going to live and who's going to die) still need working on.

Tarawen: Whoa … "And it's going … going … GONE!  _Evil – SOLD to __Tom Riddle at a bargain price of __only 3565 human souls and one patent on the Avada Kedavra curse!  __Next up, we have an __original manuscript of __The Ultimate Evil Overlord's Handbook, at a starting price of __only 12 human souls … !"  Weird mental image is right … Oh, yes, you've got your finger right on the central problem.  James & Harry can't speak, and Sirius & Remus can't believe it unless they do … and Dumbledore is busy trying out for winner of England's tri-centennial Most Enigmatic Smile competition … :^)  Thanks for the review!_

linds:  Thank you!

Ashley:  Thanks!  Hope this update was soon enough for you …

Renai:  Um, yes … why _are you reading my story at midnight?  I mean, it's flattering, but … I don't want to be guilty of depriving anyone of sleep … :^)  Thanks anyway!  Yep, they're going to be really tough to convince … well, those of them who understand just how probable it is that Voldemort would come up with and implement a plan as nasty as this one, anyway._

Chrysta:  Absolutely!  Sirius is really, really, really eager to believe that it's James … and, while he's less willing than the Potters to believe the best of everything, he's certainly a lot more likely to be convinced by his own feelings than Remus is.  That's a very good point about Dumbledore.  I am working in that bit in Book One where he wouldn't tell Harry anything – and the "flash of triumph" in Book Four is semi-explained as well.  But what Dumbledore **does know does not, unfortunately, exactly lend itself to making the Headmaster believe that Voldie would leap at a chance to not kill James Potter.  Rather the reverse.  But that'll all get explained (more or less) in Chapter Thirteen.  Ah, indeed.  James is going to have a bit of a rough time.  And you're right – Snape is one of the most competent Death Eaters left, so he's ****definitely going to know something is wrong when he realizes Voldie never told him anything.  Oh, the possibilities …**

Jelli Bean:  Welcome, and thank you!  I'm glad you find it suspenseful – that's one of the things every good author strives to achieve!  :^)  


	11. Death Eaters

__

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."

Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Author's Note: Well, here's the next chapter. Finally. I won't make much apology for its lateness, because I've been ill for a while, which isn't particularly conducive to good writing. Yes, I know, I'm pathetic. At the rate I'm writing, Book Five will come out before I'm halfway done. But I don't really care … I'm going to finish this whether OotP comes out first or not.

Disclaimer: See Chapter Ten. If you still don't believe me, see Chapter Nine. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

****

NO HIGHER PRAISE:

CHAPTER ELEVEN

__

"My Lord! I -- I have no wish to leave you, none at all --"

"Do not lie to me!" hissed the second voice. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me..."

"No! My devotion to Your Lordship --"

"Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go."

~ Peter Pettigrew and Tom Riddle in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * * *

"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared ..."

"I am," said Snape. He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.

"Then good luck," said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius.

~ Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * * *

Peter sat motionless on a cracked wooden stool in the Dark Lord's parlor, and tried to pretend that he was not really there. The scenario was beginning to feel disturbingly familiar. There, in comfortable armchairs over by the fire, sat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Lucius Malfoy, discussing plans and Deep Matters of Grave Importance. Here, in the dark corner closest to the door (to facilitate the summoning of refreshments and newspapers), sat Wormtail, waiting with bated breath to be called on to fetch and carry.

It wasn't really what he had envisioned all those months while he tended to the Dark Lord.

However, he had no intention of calling the Dark Lord's attention to himself. Acting as if he thought he were being treated unfairly would be almost the most unwise step he could conceive – certain death lay that way. Almost certain, at least. There was little knowing what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would do these days. His behavior in the past twenty-four hours had been more than a little … erratic. 

Peter cast a nervous glance at the Dark Lord's profile, still struggling to convince himself that You-Know-Who could not hear everything he thought. 

But the Dark Lord seemed wholly engaged in his conversation with that accursed Malfoy. Peter strained his ears for a moment, trying to overhear their words, but gave up on the task when the snake Nagini raised her head and regarded him through glittering green eyes. Sometimes he thought the bloody snake was psychic. Cradling his chin in his real hand, he stared at a frayed thread on the silver-patterned black carpet, and lost himself in his thoughts.

He might not have been one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts had ever seen, as _some_ people were, but he could still think when he needed to. It wasn't as if spending twelve years as a rat had permanently damaged his brain. Well, not much, anyway. 

Perhaps setting his problems out in an ordered list would help put it all in perspective. Life was really getting much too complicated. In the first place, every Death Eater – including, but not limited to, Lucius Malfoy and his goons – hated him, Wormtail, with a passion. Partly because of the brief favor the Dark Lord had shown, partly because he had been a Gryffindor, and partly because … well … none of them had really wanted the Dark Lord back so very badly. He might only be a rat, but he could see well enough that they were all afraid for their lives. If there had been a safe way for them to get out of the Dark Lord's service, at least half of them would have done it instantly. Of course, those who _had_ wanted the Dark Lord back hated Peter for being an instrument in the Dark Lord's original downfall – but, really, they were being illogical about it. Had attacking the Potter baby been Peter's idea? No. But certain people didn't seem to quite grasp that little fact.

In the second place, the Dark Lord was obviously irritated with him. Peter had little idea why – beyond the depressing realization that even the ultimate evil dark wizard found him an annoying, incompetent, less-than-bright tagalong. Silver hand or no silver hand, one of these days He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was finally going to whip out his wand and … No more Wormtail.

In the third place, Sirius Black was still on the loose and at large. And he wouldn't settle for a simple killing curse if _he_ caught up with his old buddy Pete. Being torn limb from limb was more likely, and even that might be a mercy. It didn't help that Peter's allegiance to the Dark Lord had almost gotten Sirius's precious godson killed. That wasn't one of those things that would soften Sirius's heart toward good ol' Wormtail. Mind you, that was a trifle irrelevant anyway, since there had never been any chance in the first place that Sirius would forgive Peter for James's and Lily's deaths.

In the fourth place, the Potter boy – and, by default, Dumbledore and anyone else who mattered – knew all about Peter's animagus ability. So that line of defence was gone. No more posing as a pet rat. No more hiding in places where no ordinary wizard would ever think of looking. In short, no more easy way out.

In the fifth place, he, Peter, was not getting as much out of this Death Eater thing as he had always thought he would. Really, the Dark Lord was being positively ungrateful – and here Peter stole a hasty look at his master to assure himself that his mutinous thoughts had gone un-noticed. The Dark Lord was only alive, moderately well, and in command of his Death Eaters thanks to little Peter Pettigrew, and how had he shown his gratitude? Sure, there was the silver hand – but really that was only fair recompense for Peter's sacrifice. All those months he had spent tending his master, all those _other_ sacrifices he had made, such as betraying his best friend to the Dark Lord … and now he was repaid by being treated like a bloody House Elf. This was not at all how he had thought it would be when he had first joined the Dark Lord's ranks … but that time was gone and past, and there was no use thinking about it.

In the sixth place, he would have to keep an eye out for Remus Lupin as well. That was a frightening thought, too, for now that Remus knew his guilt, the werewolf doubtless hated him as much as Sirius did. And he knew, from personal experience, that when Remus Lupin became really, truly angry, the results were not pretty. And Remus was even less likely to forget his grievance than Sirius was … or maybe not. It was hard to remember that Sirius was now quite different from how he had been before Azkaban. Perhaps those twelve years of torture had focused his mind enough that he really would _never_ give up hunting for Peter until he had the rat's neck between his teeth … 

That night in the Shrieking Shack was indelibly burnt onto Peter's brain. He would never forget the ravenous desire for vengeance in his former friend's crazed black eyes. Never. Nor the image of Sirius and Remus together – Remus with an absolutely _horrible_ pleasant smile on his face – bearing down on him with their wands out, ready and eager to kill. 

He knew, now, in some corner of his atrophied heart, that he had been a fool, an utter and complete fool, to join the Dark Lord. Much as he wanted to, he had not been able to expunge their words from his memory. They haunted him in his quiet moments, skittering through his brain like unsettled moths. Too quick to catch and swat, but just slow enough that they could not be ignored.

__

You should have realized if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would... 

His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family…

What was there to be gained? Only innocent lives, Peter!

I never betrayed James and Lily. I would have **died** before I betrayed them...

You should have died, died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you…

Good-bye, Peter.

He shivered, and drew his knees up under his chin. They _would _have died for him, once. Back when they had been the Marauders, young and invincible. Now they'd kill him on sight. He'd thrown his friends away, thrown them away to turn himself into a … into what? Hadn't he joined the Dark Lord out of a desire for power, a longing to be more than the sidekick of brilliant Black and Potter and wonderful, studious Lupin? A desire to be more than little Peter Pettigrew, who tagged around after brighter, more powerful wizards. And what had he accomplished? He'd turned himself into something less than a sidekick – a groveling worm who could even call himself a _friend_ of the powerful people he followed about. He might not have been one of the bright, shining stars in his Hogwarts days, but at least he wasn't crushed under their feet … at least they had _liked_ him.

But what good would brooding on it do? He had thrown in his lot with the Dark Lord, and it had been a bad choice. But he had made it, and he could hardly change it now. He'd just have to keep his head down and weather the storm, and maybe, just maybe, things would get better.

However, the seventh item on his little list of troubles gave that hope the lie. 

James Potter. 

He had avoided thinking about James Potter quite successfully for thirteen years – with the small exception of that night in the Shrieking Shack when he had thrown himself upon the mercy of Harry Potter, grasping at the trailing shades of James Potter's merciful nature. And even then, he had put it out of his mind quickly. It didn't do to think too long about a friend whom one had betrayed to his death. 

Or _not_ to his death, as the case appeared to be. If only the Dark Lord would explain what had happened! The question had been gnawing at him for days. How could James be alive? _How?_ That it really was James, he had no doubts. The Dark Lord's own actions proved that surely enough. But how could he have never died? Peter had seen the body himself, when he had snatched up the Dark Lord's fallen wand before fleeing from Godric's Hollow, fleeing into the ditches and sewers that enfolded him with life-saving darkness. James had been as dead as, in the old Muggle phraseology, a doornail. Dead as death.

And now he was back, and the Dark Lord claimed he had never killed him in the first place. It was all too much. 

Why was he worrying about it? Doubtless James would loathe him with a passion as soon as Harry and the others put him straight as to who the traitor _really_ was, and doubtless Peter shouldn't care a bit. But it had been unexpectedly disagreeable to tell James all those lies about his family and friends … and, worst of all, unexpectedly _agreeable_ when James had made it quite clear that he was overjoyed to see Peter again. He'd been crying with joy, for God's sake, and Peter wasn't sure he had ever felt quite as much of a louse as he had in that minute. It had been a close thing, keeping himself from blurting out the truth, falling on his knees, and begging for forgiveness. Mercifully, his common sense had prevailed. And he'd gone on with the program, feeding James that tangled concoction of truths, half-truths, and utter lies. 

He was pretty sure that the part where he'd told James he was sorry for "accidentally" giving the Potters away to Voldemort had been at least a half-truth. It had stung like poison when James forgave him for it. 

Vaguely, he wondered how long it would take the others to persuade James that he, Peter, was a rat and a villain and a Judas and scum unworthy of even being trodden on. Most likely, as soon as someone pointed out that that little tidbit of information about the Fidelius Charm was completely untrue, James would realize he'd been lied to. 

Still, it wasn't likely James was going to be his chief worry in the upcoming months. No doubt Malfoy or Sirius would snuff him out long before James came after him with a wand. In fact, from what Peter had gathered, James would be back at Hogwarts by now, most likely facing a heavy dose of suspicion.

He still didn't understand why the Dark Lord hadn't taken more precautions to keep the Potters from escaping. Wouldn't he have wanted to kill Harry once he got him in his hands? If only one could find out exactly what _had_ happened last night. But there was an infuriating lack of information about the whole affair, and Peter had to stew in silence, envying Lucius Malfoy, who doubtless knew as much about it as the Dark Lord himself did.

A soft _pop_ distracted Peter from his aimless brooding, and he jerked his head up. Severus Snape had just apparated into the room, and was currently engaged in directing a stare of utter loathing in Peter's general direction. Snape had never liked him at Hogwarts, and, unsurprisingly enough, had not altered that dislike in a positive direction since discovering that Peter was a Death Eater. In fact, Peter rather got the opinion that Snape felt as if having _Pettigrew_ fighting on the same side as him was a disgrace equivalent to co-authoring a book with Gilderoy Lockhart, whose smirking face had seemed to adorn every book in that dratted Weasley family's house. Or perhaps even worse …

"Ah, Severus," the Dark Lord's silky voice murmured, and Snape advanced toward the chair, dropping to one knee in a flurry of black robes. "You don't seem to have shown much haste in getting here, Professor. I would have thought that you would show a little more diligence in responding to my summons after our last … discussion." 

Snape was breathing rather heavily, which seemed, Peter thought, to indicate that he _had_ hurried. But naturally one wouldn't dream of angering the Dark Lord by defending someone as inconsequential as Severus Snape.

"I came as soon as I felt the Mark burn, my Lord," Snape said, his angular face quite expressionless. "I was … asleep … and it took me several minutes to get beyond the reaches of the anti-apparition wards. I apologize for my … tardiness … Master."

"See that you do better next time," the Dark Lord commanded, and Snape bent his head in what _might_ be acknowledgement. 

The silence stretched out, thin and taut as an elastic band. "May I inquire why I have the honor of being summoned to your presence, Master?" Snape finally asked.

"Impatient to return to your little students, are you? Very well." The Dark Lord rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his long fingers. "What is your opinion of the Minister, Severus?"

Snape blinked, surprise briefly disturbing his face. "The Minister – Cornelius Fudge?"  


"Who did you think I was talking about?" snapped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Yes, Master," Severus muttered. "I … believe that the Minister is … not the best man for leading the nation in a crisis. He – he is unwilling to believe you have returned, and –"

"Ah, yes. You were there when Dumbledore told him the news, were you not? Describe his reaction for me, Severus." 

Snape hesitated for a few moments, apparently choosing his words. Peter eyed the others anxiously, wondering at what stage of the proceedings he was to be sent out of the room. Malfoy didn't seem to have noticed his presence yet – he was watching Snape like a hawk. Or maybe like a vulture, if one dared compare such an ugly bird to a Malfoy. 

"After the – the regrettable incident with your servant Bartemius Crouch and the dementer, Master," Snape finally said, "Fudge went down to the infirmary where the Potter boy was recovering. He exchanged heated words with McGonagall and the Headmaster, concerning the dementer. Dumbledore was irritated that Crouch could not give testimony, and Fudge seemed convinced that Crouch had been a raving lunatic – his exact words, I believe – and gave no credence at all to the idea that Crouch had been taking instructions from you, Master."

"The fat fool," Malfoy murmured.

"When Dumbledore stated that you had indeed returned, Fudge declared that it was preposterous. He refused to believe anyone –"

"What about Harry Potter?" the Dark Lord demanded. "Would not Fudge listen to him?"

"I believe, my Lord," Malfoy interjected smoothly, "that Fudge has been influenced by the inflammatory articles from the pen of Rita Skeeter. She has been promoting the notion that young Potter is … shall we say … mentally disturbed."

"Yes," Severus agreed. "Fudge evidently believed that nonsense." There was a sudden pause, as if Snape was wondering whether calling it "nonsense" had been the politic thing to do.

The Dark Lord chuckled rather nastily. "Go on, Severus. I am quite convinced that Harry Potter is sound of mind, and agree that it is nonsense, if convincing nonsense."

Snape bit his lip, then carried on. "He stubbornly held out, over Dumbledore's arguments, that one could not believe a word Potter said. Potter woke up," he added disdainfully, "and began … well, my Lord, in his effort to convince Fudge that you had returned, he began shouting out the names of Death Eaters."

Malfoy covered his mouth with one slender hand, and Peter wondered, in astonishment, if the man was actually _smiling_. 

"Malfoy," Snape repeated, keeping his gaze on the Dark Lord, "MacNair, Avery, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle." 

"Is that a faint touch of accusation I hear in your voice?" the Dark Lord inquired. "Well, well, perhaps it was a trifle careless of us … but we hardly expected the boy to be alive to remember the information. Go on, Severus, and take care to tell me _everything_." The serpentine red eyes flashed toward Snape's face, and Peter thought he saw a shiver run through the kneeling wizard's body. "What did Fudge think of this little list?"

"He suggested that Potter had come across a list of people who were acquitted of the charge and was simply repeating that. Then he accused Dumbledore of trying to start a panic, and violently refused Dumbledore's suggestion that the dementers be removed from Azkaban. Then Dumbledore spent a long time preaching at him. Fudge ended by accusing Dumbledore of playing some sort of trick on him, gave Potter his winnings, and left in a hurry."

"A coward, then?" the Dark Lord asked.

Snape nodded slowly. "The man seemed to care more about the dignity and stability of his own office than about the chance that the wizarding world might really be in danger, Master."

Peter drew his gaze away from Snape for a moment, and found Malfoy staring at him. "My Lord," Malfoy said in his mellifluous voice, keeping his eyes on Peter, "I have no desire to question your wisdom, but discussing your plans in the presence of that … thing … makes me rather uncomfortable."

"Wormtail, leave the room," the Dark Lord said absently.

Peter slowly got up and went out.

* * * 

"My opinion of Fudge," said Lucius Malfoy, "is that he is a weak, pompous, easily led and easily frightened man. A grandfatherly moron, with neither wits nor wealth to recommend him." Having thus pronounced judgment on the Minister, Lucius waited for the inevitable question as to how such a talent-less individual had been elected in the first place. To his surprise, none such was forthcoming.

"It would be simple, then, to manipulate this man?" the Dark Lord asked thoughtfully, his weird eyes traveling from Severus Snape to Lucius.

"I believe so, my Lord," Lucius drawled. "Dumbledore has been manipulating him for years – which accounts for any effectiveness of Fudge's government thus far. Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

The younger wizard shifted slightly, hesitating before answering. "For the most part, yes. But where his own personal safety or his own personal reputation is involved, I believe he can be quite stubborn."

"Of course. In that lies the root of his pliability." Lucius eyed Snape for a moment, reluctantly admiring the Potions Master's self-control in a volatile situation. Snape had to know that the Dark Lord had neither forgiven him nor taken him back into trust, yet he seemed almost calm, and was doing a much better job of hiding his fear than most of Voldemort's servants. Being summoned to a semi-private conference like this … Snape had to be wondering if, once this conversation was over, the Dark Lord would turn to questioning his loyalty, or disloyalty, as the case might be. Personally, Lucius hoped that Severus was loyal, or at least semi-loyal. The Potions Master was one of the few Death Eaters who were both intelligent and sensible. Although the "sensible" might be called into question if Snape really _was_ a traitor. Why hadn't he come at once when the Dark Lord summoned his Death Eaters? The fool had not turned up until a good hour after the Potter boy had escaped, and Voldemort had not been particularly forgiving. 

In fact, he had been distinctly _un_forgiving. Lucius was disposed to think that the Dark Lord had made a slight tactical error there – he had nearly put out of commission permanently a servant who might still be loyal, and who could be useful, at least, even if he was no longer to be trusted. Fortunately, Voldemort had apparently thought of a use for his erstwhile Death Eater, and had halted the … punishment … before it became irreversible. Lucius was not particularly ashamed of the relief he had felt on the occasion. After all, Draco's grades in Potions might have dropped if his favorite teacher – and the Head of Slytherin House, no less – had been committed to St. Mungo's. 

And even if Snape was out of favor, one could still hold an intelligent conversation with him. Having at least one other Death Eater with a sense of tactics was a blessing that should not be underestimated.

"In that case, it should not be too difficult to … _persuade _him … to do my bidding," Voldemort said, and Lucius hastily turned his full attention back to the Dark Lord.

"I would not think so, my Lord."

"He has a family, I believe?"

"A wife and two daughters, Master," Snape said, quite calmly. Perhaps the rumor that he had gone all moral was simply a rumor after all. "His parents are dead, I believe."

"They are," Lucius verified. "From what I have seen, he is fond of his family." He injected just enough derision into his voice to make the Minister sound an utter fool for having such an ill-bred, juvenile emotion. "That could be one lever to use against him."

"Pray don't disappoint me by sinking to the level of pointing out the obvious, Lucius," the Dark Lord snapped, and Lucius bent his head, plastering a slightly chagrined expression over his face. Voldemort seemed to be in a touchy mood today.

A change of topic was needed. "Pardon my question, my Lord, but is it truly necessary to alert the Ministry of your presence? There is always the chance that the Minister may send the Aurors after us instead of cooperating."

"While there are many advantages to having the Ministry claim I have not returned," Voldemort murmured, "it is difficult to conquer a country that refuses to acknowledge one's existence."

"I see, my Lord," Lucius agreed smoothly. "You are right, of course."

The Dark Lord flicked a dismissive hand toward Snape, and Lucius exhaled softly, relieved that there would be no cross-examinations and bloodshed today. The Dark Lord was still angry, as his failure to even let Snape stand up showed, but at least he had other things on his mind now. "You may leave, Snape," Voldemort said sharply, then fastened a suddenly cold glare on the professor's black eyes. "Remember," he added softly, "that you are treading on very thin ice. Watch yourself, Severus."

"As you command, Master," Snape said with admirable composure, regaining his feet and bowing quickly before retreating to the door. It swung shut behind him, and Lucius turned back to the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," he said carefully, "are you still unconvinced of his loyalty?"

"Are you?" Voldemort demanded.

Curses. That was not the way the conversation was meant to go. "I would not dream of making a decision without your approval, my Lord," he replied in his best injured tone, sidestepping the question. "He is, from what I have seen, one of your most intelligent and competent servants, so I would not condemn him too hastily," he added negligently, shrugging. "But your own condemnation or forgiveness of him is all that matters."

"Of course," the Dark Lord said, a disquieting current of laughter running under his cold voice.

"I kept watch on Hogwarts, my Lord, as you commanded," Lucius said, dismissing the topic of Severus Snape with a wave of one manicured hand. "The Potters did not enter the castle grounds. However, I did observe the Potter boy enter the infirmary this morning. Unfortunately, there are no windows in the Headmaster's Office, and I had no means to track Portkeys …"

"They are both there," the Dark Lord said, finality in every word.

Lucius projected an air of polite curiosity, mingled, naturally, with admiration for the Dark Lord's omniscience. "One of the charms you placed on Potter Senior was a tracking spell, my Lord?" he asked innocently.

Voldemort's eyes sharpened suspiciously, but Lucius maintained his "blameless quest for knowledge" expression. "Ah," the Dark Lord hissed, his long fingers running up and down the polished surface of his wand. "You noticed that I cast … extra spells on him, then?"

"If you wish it, my Lord, I shall forget that I noticed."

"See that you mention it to no-one else."

"Yes, my Lord. I should never consider it."

"Of course." But the Dark Lord's eyes were not showing boundless trust, and Lucius became suddenly aware that he did not have Voldemort's complete confidence. Somehow, the Master's trust in him had been shaken.

So be it, then. 

"You are curious, Lucius?" Voldemort asked, his face once again conveying only camaraderie between nearly-equals, and Lucius relaxed slightly.

"I admit, my Lord, that I do wonder."

"It is not just any tracking spell," the Dark Lord purred, looking very pleased with himself. "It is an old spell that I modified myself, years ago – not only do I know James Potter's exact whereabouts, but I can see through his very eyes if I so desire."

Lucius did not bother to hide his surprise. "That is indeed a complex charm, my Lord. So – you can see – and hear? – what Potter sees and hears?" That would indeed be useful. If Dumbledore were fool enough to discuss his plans in Potter's presence … well! The Dark Lord would not need a spy.

Ingenious. He would have to try it himself, some time.

"Will not Dumbledore attempt to remove the spell, my Lord?"

"I bound more than one spell to him," Voldemort revealed. Apparently he needed someone to compliment him on his diabolically clever plan, so Lucius assumed an expression of worshipful surprise and waited for the rest. "Among others, I cast a charm to prevent him from attempting to harm me. That should cure the rash little Auror of any propensity to try out the Unforgivables on me, at least." He smiled, a twisted, cruel smile that turned his bloodless face into a demonic mask. 

Not that a Malfoy could be in any way affected by a mere frightening smile, of course.

"I cast a Shielding spell on him," the Dark Lord added gleefully. "They'll not be able to discover or remove any of the other charms I bound to him until they remove it." 

While expressing appropriate awe and admiration for the Dark Lord's brilliance, Lucius turned that latest bit of information over in his mind, puzzled. The strongest kinds of shielding spells worked only if the subject implicitly trusted the caster – excepted for Blood Shields, of course, but those could only be cast on close family members. Perhaps Voldemort had twisted a shielding spell into a darker and more powerful version of itself. He had done similar deeds before. Hopefully this Shielding spell, whatever else it might be, was not an experimental version of a new charm. Lucius would never forget the supposed Invulnerability charm that the Dark Lord had developed seventeen years ago. The unlucky recipient of the "blessing" had taken hours to die.

"They may know, if they test him, that there are Dark spells on him, but that will be the furthest they can go."

Lucius smiled tightly. "Would that I could see that little Charms professor's face when he realizes he has come up against a charm he cannot defeat."

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Ravenclaws. Sparrows who would be eagles."

"Well put, my Lord," Lucius murmured.

The Dark Lord rose, and Lucius followed his example. Sitting while Voldemort stood would be a breach of manners, if not of common sense. 

"It is not so very much to accomplish," the Dark Lord mused, beginning to pace before the fire. "Establish a Minister loyal to myself … eliminate Dumbledore and his lackeys … capture public favor by fear or by trickery … For Slytherin's Heir, such tasks should hardly be a challenge. If I can only get those Potters …"

Lucius bowed, murmured an unobtrusive farewell, and sidled – as much as a Malfoy could be said to sidle – toward the door. When the Dark Lord began going on about being Slytherin's Heir, a prompt retreat was necessary.

It would hardly do if Voldemort turned and asked him what had become of that diary …

The Dark Lord would not be pleased to hear that his basilisk was dead.

If he ever found out.

* * * 

Severus Snape had swept out of Voldemort's room in towering bad mood only to find his path obstructed by the Dark Lord's lackey, fat, bald little Peter Pettigrew.

"Is there some particular reason why you are inflicting your presence on competent people today, Pettigrew?" he snapped, and had the satisfaction of seeing the shorter man recoil in abject fear. 

"Just – just wanted to t-t-talk, Severus," Pettigrew stuttered, holding his ground again.

Severus narrowed his eyes. He really did not need this right now … and where did this Gryffindor worm get off, calling him by his first name? It was bad enough when Remus Lupin did it with a pretence at being polite. When Pettigrew did it, he was simply pretending to be Severus's equal … which was really even more insulting than the werewolf's infuriating courtesy. "Go talk to someone with your own mental capacity – or lack thereof. If you can find anyone." 

"Just wondered if you'd b-been seeing many strangers up at H-Hogwarts, Severus," Pettigrew muttered, failing to take the hint that his presence was not desired. He never had been good at deciphering insults, the fool. 

Wait. What did he mean?

Severus's brain slipped back into high gear, and he suddenly remembered seeing that damned Sirius Black sneaking about the halls in his animagus form. If it hadn't been for the burning of the Dark Mark, he would have stopped and evicted Black from the premises at once. What Dumbledore was thinking of, letting the murdering scum prowl about like that, was beyond the understanding of any intelligent wizard. But how would Pettigrew know Black was at Hogwarts? _Did_ Pettigrew know Black was there? Or was he simply fishing for information?

He eyed Pettigrew sharply, but could read only nervous fear and a real desire for answers on the sweating face. Then Pettigrew's eyes flickered past Severus to the door to the Dark Lord's sanctum with real terror in them, and it was instantly plain that, whatever Pettigrew was doing, he did not want Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort to find out that he was doing it. 

Therefore, it was obviously worthwhile to play along. Hopefully, Voldemort would keep Malfoy in there for a while yet.

"Why, whatever do you mean, Pettigrew?" he asked smoothly. "What interest could you have in Hogwarts visitors – unless, of course, you're simply eager for news of your dear old friends?"

Pettigrew's face paled, and the odd mixture of eagerness and fear in his eyes intensified. "O-o-old friends? I – I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Then why did you ask?" Patience, and all would be revealed.

Pettigrew's eyes darted from side to side. _Like a rat caught in a trap_, Severus thought, and laughed morbidly at the image. "Just curious, just curious. Wondered – wondered if there'd been any surprises there. Old f-friends turning up. People one didn't expect to see. You know."

"No, Pettigrew, I don't know. Enlighten me. I can hardly answer your questions without knowing what they are, can I?" The shorter wizard was wilting visibly under Severus's silkiest tone.

"J-j-just thought you might be a little more upset about it, S-Severus."

"Oh, I'm upset, all right. Deeply upset. And, do you know what, Pettigrew? You're making me even _more_ upset. And if you don't explain what you're getting at, I just might get upset enough to remember some of the nastier curses we used to play around with back in the good old school days. Though, of course, _you_ weren't particularly good at our games, Pettigrew."

The rat gulped, and took another step back. "Th-that _Daily Prophet_ article," he said hoarsely. "You know. The one about – about the cemetery. I wondered, that's all."

__

Daily Prophet. Cemetery. Godric's Hollow. The mysterious case of the vanishing corpse. Of course. And what did this have to do with Hogwarts? Nothing. So Pettigrew knew something that he, Severus, did not. Obviously, such a state of affairs was unacceptable and would have to be remedied at once.

Severus swooped down on the shorter wizard, who seemed to have quite forgotten his silver hand and was backpedaling toward the wall as if he thought Severus capable of casting _Avada Kedavra_ on him then and there. "Explain yourself at once, Pettigrew," he snarled. "In words of two syllables or less, if that's all your pathetic mind is capable of. _What does James Potter's body have to do with visitors at Hogwarts?_"

Pettigrew squeaked in dismay and scrabbled against the wall behind him. "I – I – I – I thought you knew!" he whimpered. "Didn't the Potters – didn't they – aren't they at Hogwarts yet?"

__

The Potters?

Severus lowered his wand slowly, his mind spinning dizzily behind a suddenly-aching forehead. "Potters, plural?" he asked softly. "As in, more than just the Potter boy?" Pettigrew did not answer, and Severus carried on, injecting more steely menace into his voice than he had ever before bothered to use on someone he despised. "I am becoming very angry, Pettigrew. Answer me at once."

Pettigrew swallowed nervously. "J-J-James P-Potter isn't d-d-dead. He's a-alive, and him and the P-P-Potter boy escaped last night – or night before last, since it's m-morning, now - and were th-thought to be heading for H-H-Hogwarts. I – I thought you knew – y-you said – I …"

For a long moment, Severus simply stood there in the dim passage, staring at Pettigrew's beady eyes. 

__

It isn't a joke, of course. Why should it be? This is exactly the type of thing that **would** happen, exactly the type of luck that Potter would get. A second chance at life. Well, why shouldn't the great Potter have a second chance? Why should death be permanent for anyone as obviously marvelous and all-around sickeningly **good** as James Potter the Gryffindor Hero? It's only natural. In fact, I should have expected it. No sooner do I finally get rid of the debt I owe the damned bloody Gryffindor fool than he decides to resurrect himself and mess everything up again.

A fine state of affairs. I daresay Black and Lupin and the Potter brat are sitting about his bedside having a general apology-fest and weeping copious tears of joy. With hot chocolate and marshmallows. 

Lovely.

Damn him. Damn him to hell. Permanently, this time.

"Alive, is he?" Severus asked mildly, fixing Pettigrew with a cold smile. Pettigrew squeaked again and made a concentrated effort to tunnel back into the wall. "Any idea how that happened?"

Pettigrew shook his head wildly. "I don't know! I – I thought you knew already, that's why I a-asked! Th-the Dark Lord says he n-never died at all –" Abruptly, Pettigrew seemed to realize he was being indiscreet. He clamped his mouth shut, face growing ashen in horror, and dived into a side passage like a … a fleeing rat. Severus glanced once over his shoulder to assure himself that the Dark Lord hadn't silently come out of his room to catch his unworthy servants conspiring against him, then apparated away.

Not back to Hogwarts, though. If Potter was alive again, it had to be looked into … and if he was back at Hogwarts, why hadn't Albus said anything? For that matter, if he was alive, and the Dark Lord knew how, why had he, Severus, been kept in the dark about it? 

This did not bode well for his career as a double agent.

Severus glanced around the graveyard where he had landed. Pettigrew had mentioned that wretched article about Potter's body vanishing from Godric's Hollow Cemetery, so that had to be the key to this insupportable situation. The evidence of the graveyard had to be the key if Potter was _really_ alive, and not just an animated corpse. Severus found himself devoutly hoping that the latter was true. If Potter was only some little trick of Voldemort's to worm his way into Hogwarts, then it would be deeply satisfying to blast Potter into small pieces and call it service to Dumbledore. 

But one had to figure out the facts, first. He'd learnt that, to his cost.

The dry grass rustled under his feet softly as he moved toward the nauseatingly impressive monument in the center of the cemetery. What had the Potters ever done, to deserve such an obscenely large and expensive tomb? They had died like fools and idiots, and their precious son had lived. Hardly meritorious of a state funeral and a thousand-galleon grave.

He reached the side of the monument and wandered restlessly around it, finally coming to a halt before the gold plaque in the center of the western side. At least that was simple enough. They could have stuck flowery descriptions of the dead couple's "valor" and "sacrifice" into the epitaph, but, mercifully, they had simply put on their one real claim to fame. Parents of Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Parents Who Died.

One could probably draw some sort of deep philosophical conclusion about the world from that, if one thought about it long enough.

Severus turned his attention to the wall of the dome, circling it again as he scrutinized its marble surface. It seemed to have been mended quite well, but that article in the _Prophet_ … what had it said? Nearly demolished, collapsed, something to that effect. He paused in his perusal to eye the official little notice pasted inconspicuously on the base of the dome. 

__

The public may rest assured that the Ministry is doing everything in its power to recover the body of James Potter and return it to its rightful resting place. The Ministry requests that the public show a decent respect for the graveyard and the Potters' tomb to refrain from expressing their indignation over the heinous outrage in the Godric Hollow Cemetery.

Everything in their power? That was not saying much as long as the Ministry was under that incompetent oaf Fudge. 

There was nothing to be learned from the tomb itself. Severus turned briskly toward the road, clambered over the spiked fence, and headed for the slightly dilapidated cottage across the way. The small building fairly screamed, "CARETAKERS' RESIDENCE RIGHT HERE!"

This, probably, would be where one could find the delinquent caretakers of the cemetery. He certainly could not remember their names, but that was not enough to trouble him.

Dedicated pounding on the cottage door ultimately brought a response. No reasonable person would care to be answering their door to a black-clad, obviously angry man at six in the morning, but Severus couldn't really bring himself to care. If the Dark Lord could summon his servants away from their sleep, then a Potions Master should certainly be allowed to summon cemetery caretakers away from _their_ sleep.

"'Ere now, what's all this about, eh?" a belligerent voice demanded, and a beady eye showed itself around the edge of the door, accompanied by a small quantity of unshaven chin and uncombed grey hair. "What the bloody 'ell d'you want at this time o' the the mornin'?"

"A few words," Severus answered, and shoved the door open. He moderated his approach out of some lingering remnant of a childhood respect for People Who Are Obviously Very, Very Old. "I apologize for disturbing you," he added, insincerely.

The old man frowned at him disapprovingly, fingering the wand sticking out of one pocket of the moth-eaten sweater he was wearing over his night-clothes. "Well, what d'you want, then?"

A second old man, clad in hastily-donned corduroy trousers and two left boots – both very muddy – appeared around the corner and squinted at Severus over the pipe clamped between his teeth.

"What night was it that Pot – that James Potter's body was stolen?" he demanded bluntly, and frowns creased the faces of both men.

"See 'ere, mister. I don't know 'oo you are, or what you want, but you ain't got no call to go 'round badgerin' us about that bloody business, see? We done our payin' fer that. Now you just git out o' 'ere, or we'll toss you out on yer bloomin' ear."

The second man shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth and gave a slow, decisive nod. "Aye!"

Severus decided that the polite approach was getting him nowhere, and pointed his wand at the more talkative old man's face. "What night?" he growled.

"June the twenny-fifth, that's when it were," the man answered promptly, holding his hands well away from his sides and trying to look amiable. "Or maybe the twenny-fourth. We don't know rightly when, y'see, on account of we were sleepin' an' only saw the bloody damage when we got up on the mornin' o' the twenny-fifth. Right, George?"

George had been staring at Severus's wand with an expression of extreme surprise, but, on being appealed to, he pulled the pipe out of his mouth, swallowed, and grunted, "It were the twenty-fourth. I 'eard the expl_o_sion jest a li'l while arfter puttin' out the loights. Reckon it were b'tween noine 'n ten. Didn't think much about it 'til marnin'." Looking surprised at having said so much, he rammed the pipe back into his mouth and bit down on it.

The other man looked surprised. "What 'e said, mister. Look 'ere, all _I_ know is 'at th'mess was a'ready bloody well there at five th'next mornin'. And we don't know no more about it than that."

"Roight," George agreed, chewing on the pipe in an agitated manner.

"Thank you," Severus said, and fixed them each, in turn, with the cold glare that could make Neville Longbottom melt in his seat. "I trust you won't be mentioning my visit to anyone … gentlemen?"

"No, sir," the loquacious man hastily assured him. "Won't say a bleedin' word. Y'cin count on us – silent as th'tomb, eh?"

"Aye," George muttered, and began retreating back toward his bedroom. "I ain't the chatterin' koind."

Severus withdrew without further discussion and apparated back to the Hogwarts grounds. They were telling the truth – he was convinced of that. And whether the "explosion" George had heard was the tomb being blasted open or not, Voldemort's Death Eaters had _not_ been responsible for the disappearance of James Potter's body. They could not very well have been out grave-robbing before Potter was portkeyed to the Riddle Manor, and afterward … well, he could personally vouch for the presence of each and every Death Eater afterward - all night and well into the morning. He was unlikely to forget anything that had occurred on that night, which certainly had ranked as one of the top seven worst experiences of his life.

Voldemort had not been particularly forgiving toward his late-returning servant. No slaying of the fattened calf there. Severus had honestly thought that he was going to die … but the Dark Lord had stayed his hand. Why? Possibly because he needed a potion maker, possibly because he realized Severus Snape was one of his few really competent servants, and possibly just because he enjoyed watching people squirm.

The last one was looking more and more likely. If James Potter was back, and he, Potter's avowed worst enemy, had been told _nothing_ of it, then the Dark Lord had some suspicions about his Hogwarts spy's integrity. But that could be worried about another day. For now, Severus meant to find the Headmaster and get the truth out of him.

Of all the people who had died in the war, James Potter was the one whom Severus least wanted to have to see again.

How damnably typical.

END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN

~~~~~~~~~

****

Responses to reviews:

__

(Author's note: I haven't responded to many of the reviews because of time constraints. It ended up being a choice between finishing the chapter or answering every review. So what answers I have made are rather short. Apologies all around.)

Alana: Thanks! Yes, Ron & Hermione will be turning up before long, though whether or not they'll find out about the new developments in Harry's life is another question …

Kitana: Sorry about the month-long delay between chapters. The muse comes as it will – and medication tends to chase away inspiration. Sadly. Ah, yes, James **is** real – but Dumbledore & company are not being thick-headed about it. After all, the chance that he would not be real is statistically much greater than the chance that it would really be James. Their caution is actually a good thing, as this chapter may show … Well, sorry James didn't appear, but I promise you that the next chapter will have plenty of him. And I've already started on it, so that's progress. Thanks for the compliments on my descriptive writing. :^) Unhappily, the china vase **was** authentic, but it was a wedding present from a disliked great-aunt, so the family was not too grieved to fine it shattered on the floor. They blamed it on the cat. :D Glad you think the fic's realistic! Potter-Riddles … hmmm …. Will everyone find out? Wait and see. As for Dumbledore's omniscience, I'm afraid my plot would be pretty thoroughly destroyed if he already knew _everything_. Actually, I agree with you. It does seem that hitting-first-and-asking-questions-later is a Gryffindor characteristic – Slytherins would probably want to make sure that there wasn't any chance of being hit back first. 

Kaydee: Do you have ANY idea just how long it took me to read that monster of a review!? :^) Just kidding – it was great! Long reviews send me to paradise … I'm sure you have a _superlative_ memory, anyway. :D Words are fun – I used to want to be a philologist. Sure, there are cows in France. And, hey, if you want to insult someone, you can always call them une vache. :^) I could've read the French part, but I don't know Spanish. What have you got against ferrets? I think they're rather cute – smelly, but cute. Of course, I also like snakes, so I suppose I'm a bit warped. Spiders are fine, but I really can't stand ants … 

Aye, it's difficult to write quickly. I often find I spend about twice as much time on story-planning as on actual writing. And I'm sure I've reread each of the books twice in my effort to make sure I'm not contradicting the canon _too_ badly. My chapter outlines are almost as long as the chapters themselves and I've only done them for half of the chapters … sigh … Well, it's not as bad as one of my original works, where I decided to write out a life history for each of the fifty main characters, not to mention a detailed history of the seven main countries. Yes, I'm pathetic. I know. Yeah, I've got a few semi-stories that I haven't posted because I was consciously or unconsciously copying someone else's idea. You probably know how it is – I read some story on ff.n, think, "That was a pretty cool idea, but I can think of ways it could have been neater …" and BANG, new plot bunny running rampant in my mind. As for the plausibility of parent-returning-to-life – I think the whole basic premise of NHP (James being Tom Riddle's son) is implausible, but I'm trying to make the rest of it hang together. Glad you think I'm succeeding.

I think I get what you're saying about Harry's half-awake thought process. I'm pleased you think it's good. It was fun to write. :D And rest assured that I greatly appreciate all the time you spent on the review. So James came across as cynical and pessimistic in the first chapter? Great! I was trying to convey his general depression (and resistance thereof) thanks to his recent confrontations with dear ol' Dad. 

Twists … yeah. :D But James is James. That would be a bit too much of a twist – I don't really like stories that muddle everything up so badly that you can't even tell who the heroes are. Hmm. Is that hypocritical? Hopefully not. I mean, my villains may be somewhat ambiguous, but I try to keep _some_ of the characters firmly on the side of Right. Eh, well. I can see I'll have to be careful with my details and my foreshadowing. Caller ID? Hobby … wait … that means … !

I'm flattered you think the story's humorous. This chapter was probably a tad dark – I mean, look at the title! – but hopefully there will be an upswing sometime in the future. Wait … no, there won't. I just remembered why one of the categories I labeled this with is "angst." But one can't be depressed all the time. 

Yes, I rather think it's a medal, too. Like the Order of Merlin, as you said. Sounds like a neat one. I've still only seen the last half hour of the movie … the chess set scene was good. 

Hm – good question. I guess Voldemort must be more powerful than Grindelwald (or Grindlewald, can't remember the spelling), the wizard Dumbledore defeated in 1945. One does wonder. Quite likely Dumbledore faced the previous Powerful Evil Overlord as well. And who knows? Maybe the previous Major Villain was a first-year seeker for Slytherin. Now that would make an interesting story.

Yep, your review was long, but that's a Good Thing. Really! I loved reading it.

As for your question about the Marauder's Map – I suppose Harry could carry on some sort of conversation with it … maybe … but I doubt the Marauders could have put _all_ of their intelligence into it – and it would have been their fifteen-year-old selves (or however old they were when they made the map). Besides which, they probably didn't actually put a spell onto it to let it carry on conversations with people. I think the way they came up and started insulting Snape was built in as a defence mechanism of some sort … ah, blast it, I had an answer to this all planned out, and then I went and forgot it. I'll just say that Harry probably would have a lot of trouble finding a way to make whatever bits of themselves the Marauders put in talk to him. But that's a _very_ interesting question and … drat it, you've just given me an idea for another story. But I _shall_ have self control and resist the urge to start a forty-second one … Anyway, if Harry could figure out how to do it, he probably could talk to his dad. I mean, hey, like Jeva said, it worked for Tom Riddle's diary … bet it's a similar spell … wow. That's a deep question. Cool!

Ionuin: Thanks, and you're welcome. :D

Jeva: Ah, I can see you're looking forward to the chat betwixt Sirius and James. :^) I hope it will be forthcoming soon – it's slow going at the moment. Sirius isn't being cooperative, and James is too sleepy to make sense. Dumbledore has **_A_** clue, but it's not the right one … you'll see. Chapter Thirteen should involve explanations from the Headmaster. As for Remus … don't be so hard on the poor chap! He's had a rough life, and he knows enough about the dark arts to know how likely it is that this is some evil dastardly trick. He doesn't want to believe it's James because he thinks he'll be proved wrong if he _does_, and that'll just involve more heartbreak. Character torture will be coming – though all the _physical_ torture will be in later chapters. :^) When the plot heats up. Though I won't maim anybody too badly. Except for the ones who die. 

Speaking of which, I agree that character deaths keep the fic real. But I have yet to read a fic where somebody I care about dies without feeling very very grieved over it, so, when push comes to shove, I may not have guts enough to kill James – oops, you didn't hear that. :D That was the thing that grieved me most about some of my favorite ff.n stories … there was one where Draco died – he wasn't a wonderful SuperGood!Draco, just a nasty, confused teenager, but it was sad anyway… and then there was one where Dumbledore died … but I seem to be off topic. Ooooh, you're writing a LotR fic? Cool! I haven't had time to look up your story yet … sigh. Ff.n has been down almost constantly, and when it hasn't I've been busy with that accursed thing called Real Life. Been coerced into driving a younger sibling to swimming lessons every morning for four weeks, and one can hardly take a computer to the pool.

Seyerius and Reemus? Hmm. I like 'em better the other way – I mean, Sirius with a long 'i' sounds all right, but Remus sounds better as Raymus, in my humble opinion. I mean, "Romulus and Reeeemus" doesn't quite have the same poetic sound to it. That's just my ha'pence opinion, though. Thanks for the long review – but, really, I appreciate it even if it's not seven thousand word! :D No need to get apoplexy about it! Anyhow, hope you enjoyed Chapter Eleven.

And Grandaddy Voldie may be a slimy git … but he's a CLEVER slimy git. So that makes it O.K. :D I wonder if he really is slimy … ick. Bad thought.

Kaydee **&** Jeva: :^D In reference to your later posts … you lot are funny! The Review Wars … hilarious! Medical opinion says that laughter reduces stress, and I think you two did more to reduce my stress problem than the blasted sleep-inducing medication I was on for three weeks. :^) 

Mallory 061197: Thanks! Wow … are you psychic? How did you know I was planning to … er, nevermind. :^) Sorry about the delay!

Shei: Well, I admit it's a pretty important detail. But people die in real life and I have a bad habit of striving for realism in my stories … tell you what, I won't kill … er … Professor Flitwick. There! I guarantee that he will live. I have a soft spot for Flitwick, actually. I bet he's brilliant (Ravenclaw) and actually a really powerful wizard. I mean, hey, he's the charms professor. Didn't JKR explain how it was pronounced somewhere in GoF? Where she was trying to get Krum to pronounce it right … or something … it's Herm-y-oh-nee, isn't it? Would Fawkes know … good question. Personally, I don't think he'd have any way to communicate what he thought – though Dumbledore does seem to be pretty good at understanding the phoenix. Actually, there are reasons why Fawkes wouldn't quite have known what to think either, so I'll just leave it at that. :^)

Hex: Snape is not a prat! All right, yes, he is, but he's a mysterious and … interesting … prat. Right? He was sprinting about because Voldie was summoning him – he didn't know anything about James. In the words of … somebody …

Sadistra: Aw, I'm sorry. But writing these takes a lot of time. A whole month is pretty bad, I admit. I'll try not to let it happen again.

Indigo Ziona: Thank you!

Giesbrecht: Do I enjoy torturing you with too-short chapters? Yes. Yes, I do. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-haha! Seriously, though, I think these are pretty long chapters! My own personal standard for chapter length is that anything 2000 words or more is a long chapter … but maybe I'm biased by all those little 376-word stories one sees about on ff.n. This chapter, for instance, is more than 7000 words long, not counting the disclaimer, the review responses, the quotes … ah, wait. I see what you mean. They are short, in terms of how much the plot advances, but … well, I'm not Anthony Hope. I can't really help sticking in character analysis and lengthy conversations … but I'll get better in the future – I swear it!

Lily Lupin: Aye, you're right. Harry's having a tough time, and Sirius & Remus are having just as tough a time. Even in the magical world, one's not used to having one's dead friends pop up alive and well again, so I hope you can forgive them their disbelief.

Smile7499: Thanks! Glad you like it!

Atalanta: Hey, cliffhangers rule. :^) Personally, I've always thought Sirius came across in the books as being a rather stubborn person. But observe, he does bend before Remus does. He's racing off to have a talk with James at the present moment …

Sailor Earth: Thank you! Well, Sirius thinks he's a wretched excuse for a godfather because a) he wasn't there for Harry for thirteen years; b) he hasn't done all that much good for Harry since getting out of Azkaban; c) he hasn't had any prior experience with being a parent, so he assumes he's doing a terrible job; d) from what I've read, Sirius seems like a rather mercurial person. And I think Azkaban gave him a good swing toward pessimism – he did, after all, blame himself for James' and Lily's deaths, which weren't his fault at all from any sane person's point of view. Well, maybe a little. But he seems like the type of person who'd be down on himself for nothing. Hmm. Well, I'm doing a bad job of explaining it, but I'm on a depressant myself, so … sorry.

Tarawyn: You think it's a suspense builder? Thank you! (Imagine author looking pleased and touched). It's kind of an introduction because it occurs during the summer … I'm not actually going to get to September 1st until the fifteenth chapter … Wow, you put James and Harry's position down _very_ clearly. That's exactly their problem. Harry is swinging dangerously close to the edge of sanity, but don't worry – he's a tough young fellow. He may make some terrible decisions in the coming year, but he won't have to be sent to St. Mungo's in a strait jacket. I hope. 

Dumbledore … yes, he does know a good bit more about it than Sirius and Remus. They can only guess that Harry is suppressing information that might suggest James is a foul plot of Voldemort's because he's so desperate to have his dad back, which is why they aren't pressing him about it. Dumbledore, though, is guessing at a part of the truth. Just how much he does know – and what he thinks of it – will be dealt with soon.

Well, no death, imprisonment, or torture for Snape in this chapter, I'm afraid. Perhaps I did make Voldemort too forgiving, but he can see several ways in which Snape can still be useful to him – and he really isn't sure whether Snape's a traitor or not. Remember, in GoF Voldemort said, in reference to those three empty spaces in the ranks, "_One, too cowardly to return ... he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever ... he will be killed, of course . . . and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service_." That can be interpreted in several ways, but since Voldemort would **know** that Karkaroff had betrayed other Death Eaters, whereas Snape's treachery was better hidden, it can be assumed that Voldemort simply thought Snape was too afraid to return. After all, Snape had somehow gotten out of going to Azkaban thanks to Dumbledore … which doesn't exactly look like loyalty from a faithful Death Eater. So Snape's going to pay, but Karkaroff is the one who will be killed. Or so, at least, think I.

Well … Dumbledore is being rather firm, I suppose, but look at it from his point of view. Here's an emotionally-stressed barely fifteen-year-old boy who sees his parents in the Mirror of Erised and is obviously hiding something … is it really a good idea to take his word that this person who is supposedly his resurrected father is absolutely all right? Dumbledore is very worried. 

Oh, no, your review's definitely not too long. It was great! Encouraging and insightful – the kind of things authors love, as you doubtless know. Thank you!

--------------

Coming next: Chapter Twelve – Padfoot and Prongs.


	12. Padfoot and Prongs

_"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said.  "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does.  Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."_

_Hagrid's__ chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the __Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer:  Consider this work of fan-fiction to be properly disclaimed.  If any doubts persist on this matter, lawyers are referred to Chapter Eleven, and thence to Chapters Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, and (you guessed it!) One.

A/N:  Yes, folks, I know this is even later than usual.  But what can I say?  I recently discovered that having a Real Life is actually a necessity, and (even more shocking), it requires a bit of time investment.  But don't worry – I still have every intention of finishing this.  Hopefully I'll have time to work on it regularly now that my schedule is settling down.  Anyhow – here 'tis: the long-awaited meeting of Black and Potter!

As always, responses to questions and comments are down at the end of the chapter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

CHAPTER TWELVE

_He was pointing at Black, who shook his head slowly; the sunken eyes were suddenly over bright._

_"Harry... I as good as killed them," he croaked. "I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-Keeper instead of me.... I'm to blame, I know it.... The night they died, I'd arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he'd gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn't feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents' house straight away. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies... I realized what Peter must've done... what I'd done...."_

~ Sirius Black, in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

_* * * * *_

_"Like father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck; you should be thanking me on bended knee! You would have been well served if he'd killed you! You'd have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you might be mistaken in Black –"_

~ Severus Snape in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

* * * 

Sirius had triple-checked the passage before he transformed into his human form, and he double-checked it again afterward, just to make sure.  The door was locked from the outside, which led him to deduce that Madame Pomfrey or other unwanted personages were _not lurking about inside.  Still, he stared at the door for several minutes before laying a hand on it._

Finally, he pushed it open, just a crack, and peered around the edge.  The room was one of the small, private chambers down in the drier parts of the dungeons – places where the students rarely had occasion to go, and the faculty little more.  Flitwick, too academically interested in the layers of magic surrounding the unconscious man to worry about his identity, had suggested that they lock him up there, for safety, and Dumbledore had agreed.  Fortunately, it seemed that they had not deemed a guard necessary.  Yet.

The room was reassuringly empty, and Sirius crept inside.  He spent several minutes shutting the door extremely quietly, and several more staring at the bed taking up the other end of the room.  Dumbledore had transfigured a hideous orange couch (exiled to the chamber at some point in the fifties) into a nice four-poster bed with convenient curtains, in lieu of trying to set up a cot.  The curtains were open.

Noiselessly, Sirius padded closer.

It was a bit of an effort to make himself actually look at the pale face on the plump white pillow, but he sternly marshaled his courage and did it.

It looked like James.

It looked a _lot_ like James.

In fact, if he was making this decision solely on the basis of how this person looked, he would have to say that it _was_ James.  

Unfortunately, there were a few other criteria to be taken into consideration, such as whether or not James still had a soul, and whether or not he was going to start casting the killing curse right and left as soon as he got his hands on a wand.  

Sirius continued to stare, vaguely astonished that he (_James_) looked so much like Harry.  With their eyes shut, they could almost be identical, except, of course, for the scar and the difference in age …  Speaking of which …  

James was scarcely a day older than he had been the last time Sirius had seen him.  October 30th, almost fourteen years ago.

_He's young.  Very young.  Remus and I … are older now.  We ought to have been allowed to grow middle-aged together, to watch Harry grow up.  There should have been younger brothers and sisters.  He shouldn't have had to die so young.  It wasn't fair, it wasn't right._

_Get a grip, Sirius.  Even if it is him, things are never going to be the same again.  We've all gone through too much, become too different.  But …  _

_Oh, God, let it be him._

Sirius stretched out his hand, feeling rather as if he was about to give a dementer a friendly handshake.  This was it.  This was going to be the decisive moment.

He touched James's shoulder, noted briefly that it was warm and _felt _normal enough, if a bit thin, and gave the sleeping man a light shake.

A moment later, he shook James again, a little harder.  This time, he got a reaction.  James's eyelids fluttered, and Sirius snatched his hand back as if it had been burned.  The eyes opened slowly, and Sirius stared down at the familiar grey color, desperately trying to decide whether they looked colder, or deader, or mesmerized, or mad, or anything else that would suggest something wrong.  It was hard to tell, but he was fairly sure that they were simply a bit bewildered.

James blinked hazily a few times, then squinted up at Sirius.  "Harry?" he murmured questioningly.  

Sirius didn't really think James's eyesight was quite _that_ bad.  "He's … sleeping."

The man blinked a few more times, then tried to push himself up on his elbows.  "Where … ?"

"Hogwarts.  He's fine."  Sirius hesitated, watching (_James?_) the man gaze blankly at him.  His heart flipped over nervously.  He was so bloody _young._  Sirius felt as if it had been a hundred years since he had been that age.  Azkaban tended to take the youth out of one with inhuman speed.  And yet … staring at that familiar face, he could almost believe he himself was in his twenties again, standing by James's bedside after a less-than-successful Auror action.  Fourteen years ago.  Yesterday.  "Harry's fine.  Madame Pomfrey took care of his burns."

"Hogwarts," the man said slowly, wonder and bewilderment blending in his drowsy voice.  "We're safe, then.  But - how – what – what happened?"  There was a pause, during which he turned his head from side to side in obvious quest of his glasses, then, as an afterthought, he added, "Who are you?"

Sirius's throat tightened painfully, and he clutched at the bedpost.  "I –"  _Me__.  Sirius.  Padfoot.  Your best friend.  You know, the one whose fault it is that you and Lily are dead?  The words just wouldn't come out._

James's searching hand finally located the glasses, perched neatly beside the pillow.  He slid them onto his nose with a faint sigh of relief, and looked up.  His face instantly froze in a caricature of shock, and he bolted up into a sitting position so quickly that Sirius was almost afraid he would snap his spine.

He stared, pale and wild-eyed, his hair standing straight up in familiar, unruly tufts.  

Sirius briefly considered a nonchalant grin and a casual, "Hey, Prongs," but abandoned the idea.  He wasn't sure that Azkaban had left him much in the way of easily-summonable nonchalant grins.  

"Sirius?" the man whispered, unblinking.  "You – are you – you are, aren't you."  He seemed about to say more, then shut his mouth tightly.

"Yes," Sirius finally said, and released his grip on the bedpost.  "Er … how are you feeling?"

James was still staring at him, looking oddly heart-broken.  "You … you look awful," he whispered.

Well, if James remembered him as he had been fourteen years before, Sirius thought, he was rather in for a shock.  Azkaban didn't do much to make one look all bright and healthy and cheerful and young.  "Tactful as always," he said, grinned awkwardly, then gave it up.  

"Harry said –" James began, then stopped again.  The conversation really wasn't proceeding very quickly.  Sirius pasted what he hoped was an encouraging expression on his face, and James went on.  "Harry said you –"  He stopped again, then demanded in a burst, "What happened, Sirius?  Was it really Peter?"

Sirius felt his teeth grit together angrily at the mere mention of that name.  He could tell, from the shocked expression on James's face, that his rage was showing.  "_Yes_," he snarled, and bit his tongue to keep from cursing the rat to hell.  

James's face took on that peculiarly unhappy expression which, at Hogwarts, had always tended to make any females within the vicinity swoop forward to comfort him.  He swallowed once or twice, took his glasses off, polished the left lens, then carefully replaced them.  It was his typical got-to-keep-a-stiff-upper-lip routine, almost the same motions he had gone through when Sirius's parents had died, or when Remus had a particularly tough full moon.  "You're sure?" he asked in a small, husky voice, sounding oddly like Harry.  "Peter … I mean, it wasn't the Imperius, or anything?"

"_NO_, it was _NOT," Sirius snapped, clenching his fists at his sides.  "The dirty rat had been selling information to Voldemort for a _year_ before he – before he – before It.  And it's his filthy fault that Voldemort is back now."  There was more he could have said, much more, but he choked it back, remembering that this was meant to be a test, a way for him to find out whether this was James Potter or just some Potter-ish doppelganger, not an opportunity for him to deliver an eloquent speech on what Wormtail was and what he would be once Sirius got his own hands on the rat's neck.    
James was staring down at his own hands, quiet and still.  After a moment he sighed, and looked up again.  There was pain in the grey eyes, and Sirius's heart constricted.  In one way, it was heartening, since it meant James _could_ have emotions, but … somehow, he would have preferred it if James had been as angry at Wormtail as he himself was.  The rat deserved undying hatred._

"So it wasn't Remus," James said, looking up at Sirius's face as if searching for something.  "Remus – it wasn't him.  The spy, I mean."

"No," Sirius said quickly, feeling his cheeks reddening with shame.  "I was wrong, dead wrong.  It was never Moony.  I –"  And then, because he'd had little else to think about for twelve dark, cold years, and because he hadn't had any sleep for over twenty-four hours, and because it had been a stressful, exhausting day, and because it looked so much like James, the flood of words came tumbling out, hoarse and desperate.  "I was a fool, a bloody, damned fool, and I should have _known_ it couldn't be Remus and I should have _known_, and I'm sorry, Prongs, I'm sorry, I really am sorry, I never meant for that to happen, I'm so _sorry_.  It was my fault, mine, I should have known, I should never have made you switch – I was scared, Prongs, afraid I wouldn't be strong enough, and I was scared I couldn't do it, couldn't keep you and Lily and Harry safe, and I thought he'd never go after Peter, but I should have known, and I should have kept better watch, and I should have gotten there sooner, and I should have caught Peter and wrung his neck and then Voldemort wouldn't be back now, and Harry could have grown up with somebody decent, and I – I – I – oh, God, Prongs, I'm so sorry – I'm to blame more than anyone else – I killed you, you and Lily, _I _did it, and I should be damned for it, and I - I shouldn't have been such an idiot as to think it was Remus, that was stupid, that was just unforgivable – I should have been braver, or quicker, or smarter, and Lily wouldn't be dead, and Harry wouldn't be an orphan, and you wouldn't be – wouldn't be … dead …"

He trailed off in a mire of confusion and misery, and found that he had somehow collapsed to sit on the floor, shuddering and pressing his hands to his eyes.  With a bit of an effort, he looked back toward the bed, and found James staring blankly at him.

"I'm sorry," Sirius whispered again, and the room went silent.

James kept staring at him, wide-eyed, blinking slowly behind the spectacles that didn't quite look like his old ones.  His thin hands were twisting and untwisting the edge of the blanket.  "You … you think it's your fault?" James – or the Not-James – asked finally, his words remote and dull.  "Your fault?"

"And Wormtail's," growled Sirius, regaining a little control of himself and sitting up straight.  "But … yes.  I – I'm sorry."  It sounded lame and inadequate, somehow.  How did you convey to someone that you were sorry you'd killed them out of cowardice and gross stupidity?  How did you apologize for robbing someone of their life and their family?  You couldn't.  You didn't often get a chance to apologize to someone who was already dead, but here the chance was … and he was blowing it.  He couldn't remember all the things he had wanted to say, all the things he had said in Azkaban to the wraiths of his dead friends when they had appeared to his crazed imagination on nights of insanity.  A simple 'sorry' was not sufficient.

Nothing would ever be sufficient.

He looked again, and James was shaking his head slowly, the movement sending the shadows flitting from one side of his gaunt face to the other.  "No," he said, his voice ringing with the firm insistence of the Hogwarts days that Sirius remembered so well.  "It was _not_ your fault.  Not."  When James spoke like that, he meant to have his own way, come hell or high water.  No talking him out of it when he brought out his I-Am-an-Arrogant-Prat-and-I-Will-Not-Be-Denied voice.  No use at all.

Not that that realization had ever prevented Sirius from arguing before.  "You don't really believe that," he said bitterly.

James blinked at him, still round-eyed and pale, then his eyes slid past Sirius's face, gazing into dark distances that only he could see.  "I know whose fault it was," he said softly.  "It wasn't yours.  Not yours.  Never yours.  Harry said so.  You're innocent.  You didn't do anything.  You're not to blame.  It's not your fault.  Not Peter's, either.  Peter is – was – weak, not evil.  Peter … Peter isn't strong like Remus and you.  Peter isn't brave.  It's not your fault and it's not Peter's fault.  It's _his_ fault, his and mine.  Ours.  Mine.  Only ours.  I'm to blame, I'm the fool, the coward, it was my fault, all mine.  And his.  Not yours.  Not anyone else's.  Mine…"

"James!" Sirius snapped, his voice loud and harsh in the small room.  The flood of monotonous chanting had begun to unnerve him, especially since it was sheer nonsense.  And the look in James's eyes … fear and unease crawled up his spine, and he scrambled to his feet.  James was rubbing his hands across his face, head bent in a defeated position.

"Sorry," he muttered, replacing his glasses and blinking.  "I don't know what got into me.  I …"  He trailed off dully and looked at the wall, shivering as if cold.

Sirius folded his arms, trying to remember why he had come in the first place.  His confession and apology had done only a little to relieve the burning load of guilt in his chest, especially since James didn't seem to even take it seriously.  Provided it was James, of course.  That was still to be proved, wasn't it?  

Sirius was not certain anymore.  All those things Professor Dumbledore and Remus had said seemed distant and unimportant now, somehow irrelevant.  Here, in front of him, was James, flesh and blood and spirit.  Spells and possibilities and statistics and dark auras were trifles, silly trifles in the face of hard facts.  It looked like Prongs, it talked like Prongs, it breathed like Prongs, it moved like Prongs, and Sirius's heart was telling him, loudly and vociferously, that it _was_ Prongs.  So maybe ...

"Er … James …" he began slowly, and James's dark head turned back toward him.  Surprisingly, his face pulled into a wan smile.

"I didn't think I'd ever see any of you again," the Probably-James said, a wistful wonder in his voice.  "I thought you were all dead, all that time.  You and – and Peter, anyway, and I still thought Remus was … well, the traitor.  I'm glad we were wrong.  I'm very glad.  I shouldn't ever have thought it was him.  It was stupid.  Lily never believed it.  And he's still alive, too, Harry said, and well.  It's been fourteen years, hasn't it?  That's a very long time.  I missed you all.  I never thought … heavens, I don't think I'd gone as much as fourteen _days_ without seeing at least one of you for a very long time before … before."  He paused, still looking at Sirius as if searching for something, a lost and haunted stare.  

"I thought Harry was dead.  He's a great kid, isn't he?  He's a lot like Lily, a great deal.  His eyes look exactly like hers, only I suppose he's near-sighted, like I am.  Lily might have been disappointed.  She told me she didn't like her eyes, that she'd always wished they were blue.  That was awfully foolish, because her eyes are beautiful.  Were beautiful."  He broke off, and something shadowy and frightened crept over his eyes.

A moment later he went on, now staring into the past again.  "Do you remember in our Muggle Studies class, how the professor told us that Muggles who wanted to do healing studied things like anatomy about how the human body works?   Muggles are crazy.  Why would they want to do that?  But they probably know what eyes are made of.  I never thought about it before, you know, about what happens to people after they die, to their bodies, I mean.  It's one of those things young, stupid, invincible Gryffindors don't need to think about.  But Lily's eyes aren't gone after all, because Harry has them, and Harry's still alive."  He stopped short again, shaking his head as if something hurt him.  "Hair takes a very long time to rot, did you know that?  Lily's hair was beautiful, so beautiful …  I hoped she was alive, she and Harry, for the longest time.  I thought she might have saved him and herself, and then I wouldn't have minded so much.  But it isn't fair that I'm alive and she isn't, not when it was my fault.  I loved her, and I killed her, and …" He halted for a fourth time, quivering.  "It wasn't your fault, Sirius," he whispered.  "It was mine."

Sirius found that he had completely forgotten whatever question it was that he had meant to ask.  He stared at James's dimmed eyes, frantically searching his memory.  Hadn't Remus said something about minds raised through the dark arts going mad?  This wasn't like James at all.  James _never_ rambled.  At least, not without an ulterior motive – not like that.  And what was all that talk about hair and eyes and rotting?

"Are you – all right?" Sirius asked, almost timidly.  James started, then looked at him as if he really saw him again.  The darkness receded, leaving James's eyes as clear as they ever had been.

"I'm fine," James answered, his voice steady again.  "I'm fine – well, as fine as could be expected.  _You're_ the one who looks like a – like a – like something the dog dragged in during the night.  You look bloody awful.  Are you sick?"  Anxiety crept into his voice and face.  "Harry wouldn't tell me how you were – at least, he said you were fine, but he isn't a very good liar yet.  He said – he said they'd put you in Azkaban, even though you weren't the Secret Keeper," James finished in a rush.  "It isn't true, is it?  I mean, for _twelve years_?  When you didn't even do anything?  It – is it true?"

"Yeah."  Sirius looked toward the bedposts, admiring their straight and shining smoothness.  "Yeah, it's true.  But you don't need to worry about that.  It's over and done with."

He looked back in time to see James manifestly fail to take Sirius's injunction to heart.  Anger and pain leapt into his eyes like hot fire, and his hands clenched on top of the blankets.  "_How_?" he demanded, voice tight with fury.  "What – idiot – incompetent – what _bastard_ made _that_ decision?  What were they thinking?  What was Dumbledore doing?  Didn't anybody have any _sense_?  There were dozens of people, _hundreds_ of people who must have known you could never do anything like that!  Dumbledore – McGonagall – everyone!  I can't believe that they believed that _you_ were the – that _you_ would have – I mean, you're – you wouldn't ever have done that.  Ever.  Not _ever.  Those – crazy – probably __Death Eaters – they ought to be thrown to the Dementers themselves!"_

Now there was the James Potter that Sirius had known at Hogwarts.  Always ready to work himself into a rage on behalf of a friend who had suffered an injustice.  It had taken days to calm him down after he'd learned from Remus how people treated werewolves.  Not that Sirius had done any of the calming down. In fact, he, Sirius, had proposed that they burn down the Ministry as a protest, and James had eagerly seconded him, but …

Sirius felt a grin spreading across his face.  It widened, stretching into a genuine smile that felt strange on his facial muscles.  Then he felt a laugh bubbling up from somewhere inside him – a place that he had thought Azkaban had long since ripped away.  He chuckled.  He laughed.  He threw his head back and shouted with mirth, grabbing at the bedpost to keep his feet.  He laughed until he was dizzy, laughed until he felt like crying, then had to stop to catch his breath.  There were black spots darting across his vision, and he had a vague notion that he might be a bit short on oxygen.

When he could finally stand straight again, he saw that James was watching him with wide-eyed, open-mouthed concern.  "P-Padfoot?" he stammered.  "Are you all right?"

Sirius snickered weakly, but his stomach muscles hurt, and he sat down on the floor again.  "Never better," he gasped, unable to get the silly grin off his face.  "Never better.  It really _is_ you.  Oh, Jamesie, you've no idea how _all right I am."_

James continued to look worried.  "You're sure?  Do you want me to call somebody?  No, don't try to get up.  Just sit still and catch your breath.  Are you sure you feel normal again?"

Sirius fought off a fresh wave of laughter as realization hit him.  James thought he was off his rocker – crazy from too much time spent around dementers.  "I'm perfectly all right, Prongs.  I'm not mad.  Just happy."  He scrambled up before James could protest, and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.  When he let go and shoved James back to view him at arms-length (he had felt terribly thin), James was smiling a trifle sheepishly.

"Sorry, Sirius.  I guess I forgot it must be rather, er, strange for you, what with me being, y'know, dead for fourteen years."  

"Nothing's ever been stranger," Sirius agreed fervently, and perched on the foot of the bed.  Dumbledore really should have provided some chairs.  "Speaking of which – James, why _are_ you alive?  Harry didn't give us a very clear story, and, well, the Headmaster and some of the others are of the opinion that there's something fishy about this whole business."

James scooted back, leaning against the headboard and drawing his legs up to give Sirius more room.  He squinted at the palms of his hands before answering the question.  "Well, I didn't die, actually," he said slowly, still looking at his hands.  "I wasn't dead all this time."

"You looked dead to me," Sirius said, suppressing a shiver.  "Dead and cold.  I tried everything I could think of to revive you –"

At that, James looked up, curiosity on his face.  "You were there that night?  You came to Godric's Hollow?"

"Oh, yes," Sirius said moodily.  He looked away suddenly.  "Too late."

"Tell me about it," James said softly, and Sirius glanced back at him, surprised.  What was this all about?  James wanted to be told about his own _death_?  The worst night in Sirius's whole bloody life?  "Harry," James clarified eagerly.  "He didn't say much about it.  You must know, if you were there.  How did Harry – why is he still here?  That scar – is it true that the Killing Curse was cast on him?"

Sirius nodded.  It made sense now.  "Yes.  Nobody really knows what happened for sure, since Harry was too young to remember and … well, there weren't any other eyewitnesses …"  He paused, frowning.  "You don't know what happened?  But you were _there_."

"Not by then."  James's face pulled tight, as if with pain, and his eyes went blank briefly.  "Not any more."  
"Oh."  Sirius remembered how the bodies had lain – James's in the hall, by the shattered kitchen door, Lily's in the parlor by the back door as if she had been trying to get out.  Of course.  James must have been … disposed of … before Voldemort went after Lily and Harry.  "I don't know, James, I really don't.  When I got there, Hagrid was already there, and he had Harry in his arms – Harry was crying, and there was that cut on his forehead, bleeding … and you and Lily …"  He stopped, suddenly anxious.  James had his eyes squeezed shut, and was rocking back and forth slightly as if in pain.  

"Lily," he whispered faintly, and Sirius swallowed guiltily.  He probably should try not to mention her.  After all, James had probably only just found out she was dead, and he'd been talking pretty wildly about her a moment ago … wait.  Hadn't James and Lily Potter been buried in the same tomb?  In the same _coffin_?

Oh.

Well, that might be one explanation for James's mad talk of rotting corpses.

Sirius grimaced, suddenly nauseous.  Even remembering Lily as a pale, startled corpse, staring up at the sky with an anguish-filled face, was better than thinking of her as a … skeleton.  

Without eyes.

"I asked Hagrid if I could have Harry," he said aloud, speaking quickly to ward off the nightmarish mental images.  "He said Dumbledore said he had to take Harry somewhere else, so I gave him my motorcycle and went after Peter.  I didn't get any explanation of why Harry was alive then.  I know, now, that apparently Voldemort cast the killing curse at Harry, and it … bounced off, leaving that scar he's got now.  It hit Voldemort – we think – and that made him just vanish.  He was gone for years and years, but Pettigrew, curse him, did some kind of ritual to bring him back.  Voldemort, I mean.  So that's why he's back now.  But I think he's afraid of Harry.  Dumbledore seems to think that Harry has some kind of power against him.  I don't know any more than that, really.  You can ask the headmaster next time you see him.  That's about it.  So, er, can you …  Do you want to talk about it?" he finished lamely.  

_Skies above, I sound like a let's-get-all-emotive teenage girl.  "Awww, d'you want to talk about it?  D'you want to cry on my shoulder?  There, there…"  Blech.  _

James looked calm again, if rather pale.  "Talk about what?" he asked.  

"About … you know …"  Sirius gesticulated vaguely.  "How you're here, instead of … not here."

"Not really," James muttered, plucking at the corner of a fluffy white pillow.  "It isn't a pleasant memory."  He looked at Sirius questioningly, then sighed.  "Fine.  It's not a very long story, anyway."  His eyes slid away, focusing intently on the center of the pillow – though the spot did not look particularly interesting from Sirius's angle.  Just boring white cloth.  

"An alarm went off," James said slowly, dragging each word out as if it hurt.  "And we knew the wards were down.  I told Lily … I told her to take Harry and go.  I didn't know that he … that Voldemort had changed the wards so she couldn't get out.  I went out into the hall just as he, Voldemort, blew the door in.  We dueled.  That is to say, he completely and utterly beat me.  I used to think I was pretty good at dueling," he said drearily, still studying the invisible image on the pillow.  "Well, I was wrong.  He was so much better that it wasn't even funny.  Well, he thought it was funny, but I didn't.  He beat me, and then, when I could hardly stand up any more, he took time out to taunt me.  My wands were both gone by that time.  He petrified me.  Then he said he had a better punishment in store for me than just death.  He said it was some dark spell he had perfected which would make me seem dead, but really my mind would still be alive, in some place he called the netherworld.  He said my mind would be … linked to him.  So that he could call me back whenever he wished, back to my body."  James paused and shrugged, still not looking at Sirius.

"So he cast it.  And then I guess he was hit by the reflected killing curse.  And then, when he was brought back, I came too.  I don't think he expected that.  I don't think he knew quite as much as he thought he did about how that spell worked.  I came back, and he didn't know about it right away.   When he did, I suppose he sent some of his Death Eaters out to catch me."  Again, James paused, as if trying to remember, before going on in a flat, emotionless voice.  "I was running in the woods as Prongs.  I thought Harry and Lily were both dead … I don't think I was quite in my right mind.  I'm not sure how they caught me, but I woke up in Peter's house.  Peter told me Harry was alive and sent me to where Harry was living.  I didn't know that the shirt he'd given me was a portkey.  When Harry touched my arm, it transported us both to Voldemort.  Harry probably told you the rest."  He transferred his eyes from the pillow to an equally interesting spot on one corner of the bedspread.  "We got away.  Are you sure Harry is all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure that Harry's burns healed quite well," Sirius assured him.  "He was not as badly hurt as you were, actually."  Then Sirius firmly turned the conversation back toward its original heading.  "What did Voldemort want with you and Harry?  I mean to say – why didn't he just kill Harry?"

James looked up, a thoughtful expression flitting back over his face.  "I don't know – I wish I did.  It is very strange – if he wanted Harry dead, he had a perfect opportunity to do it there.  All I can think of is that maybe he was afraid any curse he cast on Harry would be reflected back onto himself again.  Do you think that's a possibility?"

Slowly, Sirius nodded.  "Perhaps.  You'd have to ask Dumbledore.  But it seems possible."  Incongruously, he grinned again.  It had been years, probably, since he'd felt so bloody _happy.  His last suspicion had just been laid to rest – if James was really some trick of Voldemort's, he would certainly have had a glib explanation for Voldemort's seeming clemency.  _

The smile slid off his face when he looked back at James.  The stupid git was staring down with an incredibly unhappy expression on his face.  "All right, James?" he asked, then mentally kicked himself for sticking his paw in his mouth.  _Oh, of course he's bloody fine, Sirius.  After all, he's only just come back from the dead, and just lost his wife … a little while ago, for him._

And that thought brought up another, and Sirius blurted out, "If you weren't dead, where've you been all these fourteen years?  Harry said –"

James winced visibly, his skin turning a sickly shade of white.  Sirius gave himself another mental kick, a harder one.  _Looks like Azkaban didn't do as much for my sense of tact as I thought it did.  Just like the good old days – I only open my mouth to change whichever foot was in it before …_

"I _won't talk about that," James said hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut.  "I'll make you a deal, Sirius – you don't ask me about that, and I won't ask you about Azkaban."_

"Deal," Sirius said swiftly.  No need for deliberation there.  Desperately, he cast about for a change of subject.  "So …" he finally said, "ah … did Harry tell you that he's the Gryffindor Seeker?"

James opened his eyes, and Sirius relaxed.  _Ah, maybe my tact isn't as utterly gone as I thought.  "He said a little about it."  James leaned forward eagerly.  "Tell me about it – has Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup?  How long has he been Seeker?  Is he – you know – really, really good?"_

_Thank God for Quidditch.  Sirius happily launched into Remus's oft-heard recounting of Harry's third year and his mighty victories – only to be brought up with a jerk when James frowned and asked, "Why were there dementers on Hogwarts grounds?"_

"Oh … ah …"  Sirius blinked, startled.  "Well, because I – they were … the Ministry – I'd just escaped, and –"

"Escaped," James said flatly, his eyes hardening in anger.  "You mean after twelve years, you had to _escape to get out of Azkaban?  What did they do, lock you up for __life?"_

"Yes, actually."  Sirius shrugged as nonchalantly as he could.  "But I slipped out in dog-form one night, swam to shore, made my way to Hogwarts … long, boring story."

James was muttering indistinctly, choked up with anger.  Sirius scowled at him, suddenly frustrated.  "Give it a rest, Prongs!  They thought I'd done it, and if I _had done it, I'd have deserved worse than life!  I just wish they'd let me finish off Wormtail first …"_

James gaped at him, before managing a startled, "You're _nutters, Sirius!"_

The door banged open, and a rush of the dungeon's cool, dank air swarmed into the room.  "My sentiments exactly," a cold, sneering voice said, and Sirius leapt up, spinning around with his wand in his hand.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest, and Headmaster Dumbledore was peering over his shoulder with an expression of mild reproof.

Sirius bit back a curse word.

"_Snape?" James whispered in unfeigned disbelief, leaning around the bed curtains to get a better look.  "Severus Snape?"  A pause, and then, in wondering awe, "And here I thought you were an ugly git when you were a __teenager!"_

Sirius sighed aloud.  _This is not an auspicious beginning._

END OF CHAPTER TWELVE

~~~~~~~~~

**Responses to reviews:**

Shei: It's definitely spelt Dementer in the books I've got.  Kill Harry???  What kind of a Harry Potter fan _are you?  ;^)  Hmm … as far as angst goes, you're right – from James's perspective, losing Harry would be the worst thing ever … it would certainly push him over the edge … oops, forget I said that.  Sirius wouldn't like it either, I suppose…  Anyway, thanks for your review: I enjoyed it!_

Tarren:  Thank you!  I'm so happy you think it's believable … wait!  You _cried?  Oh, my … you have no idea how touched I am that my writing was good enough to actually be sad.  :^)  Wow, what a lot of compliments!  No, I don't have a beta reader – don't really have time to coordinate things that much.  Yep, Ron and Hermione will soon come back into the picture … iiiiin Chapter Fifteen.  I think.  _

Tarawyn:  Wow!  What a long, incredible, wonderful review!  I loved your comments about Peter – that's exactly how I view him.  The heir?  Voldemort's referring to himself on that one … seems like the type of guy who might refer to himself in third person once in a while.  Ah, the basilisk.  That was foreshadowing, so to speak – Voldemort does not know about its death yet, but he remembers its existence, and he has plans.  Big plans.  Yes, Snape's not thinking straight yet.  He's a little emotionally unbalanced, what with the whole Voldemort-is-back-and-I'm-a-bloody-spy-_again thing.  From what I've read, it seems he deals with stress by becoming very nasty, angry, and bitter.  Thanks so much for the review!_

Kaydee:  Oh, yeah, I _so wanted to be a philologist … I'm now studying Latin and taking a course about Anglo-Saxon literature … *blissful sigh.*  But I think I'm going to be a computer programmer.  :D  Oh, hey, you loved __The Hobbit?  Cool!  I was just reading __Beowulf today (Anglo-Saxon epic), and I discovered where Tolkien got the whole Smaug thing; he loved the whole Anglo-Saxon deal.  Heck, I even found names from __Lord of the Rings in __Beowulf!  Ah, OK, sorry about that.  I like to rant.  Now, to actually respond to your review:  Aw, thank you!  I sat here and grinned like an idiot while reading your specific comments.  Eeyep, made 'em all up myself – I'm weird about writing metaphors and stuff.  :D  Oh, I'm so glad you like the POV thing.  I really enjoy it myself – it helps me flesh out the characters.  I don't know about doing Voldemort: it would be so incredibly difficult.  Not being particularly anxious to conquer the world myself, it'd be rough to realistically write about someone whose one desire was to do just that.  But I'm thinking about it.  I kind of feel like I should, since he's so important to the story, and since there's more to him than I-Am-an-Evil-Overlord-Hear-Me-Cast-Avada-Kedavra.  Maybe one of the last chapters, like one where someone important dies … or maybe during some Voldemort-James bonding moment.  Heh heh heh.  Glad you liked the Snape part.  It was fun to write.  But snakes are so CUTE!  Those adorable wedge-shaped heads … those flickering forked tongues … those jewel-like eyes … that glistening scaly skin …  All right.  In response to your questions:  You're right!  We know nothing about Hermione!  'Cept that her boggart was flunking out, as Jeva said.  Moving right along: yeah.  The Mirror is most likely going to make an appearance in my story.  And that idea you propounded would be a cool story._

Giesbrecht:  Thanks!  I guess the chapters seem really short because hardly anything happens in them … but I've seen so many stories on this site that have chapters which are each about 500 words long.  Ergh.  That's just ridiculously short.

Jeva:  Quick!  Where is this site with more fics?  Tell me!  Tell me now!  I must read them!  Oh, yeah, Dumbly-dorr is in possession of a clue … but unfortunately he knows too much about one side of the problem, and too little about the other.  Hence his confusion.  But that's for the next chapter.  Yes, Remus is … sad.  I'm very attached to Remus.  In the sense of: I hope I don't have to kill him off, because the poor guy has *enough* trouble without *dying* too.  How would I imagine James dying again?  Oh, I dunno … jumping in front of a killing curse aimed at Harry, maybe … :^D  Oh, YEAH!  You're reading _Draco__ Sinister?  That's the BEST fanfic EVER!  I love that story sooo much …  Did you read __Draco__ Dormiens too?  I go check schnoogle.com every day to see if Cassie Claire has updated __Draco__ Veritas … yes, I'm addicted.  It's pathetic.  Hey … you can feel sorry for Wormtail if you want to.  Really.  I mean, everybody feels sorry for Snape (well, 76% of fans, anyway), and he made Harry's life miserable, so why not Peter?  OK, this has gotten rather long, so – thanks so much for the review!  (And, wow, you really understand the prophecy well!  You explained it better than I could have.  :D)_

SummerRose:  Thanks!  Er, I hope you're not still sitting at your computer … I'm sorry, really I am.

Redfeather:  It's okay … I wasn't planning on a James/Snape friendship.  Though I've actually never once come across a fic of that type.  They may come around to being able to work with each other (with snarlings and glarings and cursings of the highest degree), but they're not going to get all "Oh, Sev!  I've misjudged you!  I'm so sorry for how mean I was to you in school … give us a hug, man!"  Thanks for the compliments!

Ariana Deralte:  Thank you!  Ah, 'fraid it'll be a while before the Potters=Riddles fact comes to light.  Sorry!

Purple People Eater:  Thank you!  Hope this chapter satisfied your James-craving.  :D

Mejika:  Thank you!  I'm really glad you're enjoying it.  

Starseeker:  Whoa … compliment overload.  :D  Thanks so much – comments like that make me very happy.  And eager to write more.

Lily Lupin:  Um … can't wait for Padfoot & Prongs to come out?  Er … this is not a slash fic … uh … OK, maybe I misread that.  Thanks for the review!

Ashley:  Thank you!

Kitana:  Ah ha ha, no, no published works.  I'm just a college-student-amateur who loves to write more than anything else in the whole wide world … unless it's to read.  I guess I learned how to write by reading way too much.  Wow … I'm really thrilled that you liked this chapter so much.  And that you noticed the naming change!  I think you're one of the only people who picked up on that – congratulations!  And I'm glad you pity Wormtail at least a little.  Personally, I loathe him with a passion, but I also feel extremely sorry for him (paradoxical, I know).  But then, I'm one of the people who got angry at Sam for being mean to Gollum in _The Lord of the Rings, so I'm just strange.  Glad you thought Lucius had personality!  And, yes, I really enjoyed writing Snape's POV.  Ah, thanks for pointing out the typo.  I'll try to find time to fix it.  Someday.  As you may guess, the muse deserted me quite thoroughly throughout the month of August, causing this chapter to be sickeningly late.  Sorry!  Yep … if Voldemort discovers that Snape is a spy, all hell will break lose.  How long is how long?  Wait and see.  : )  Slytherins aren't boy scouts!  They're just prepared.  And Gryffindors aren't boy scouts either … but it's solely because they __aren't prepared…_

Rowan:  Hi!  I'm really happy you decided to review.  I love my reviewers … love them … I'll try to check out your story sometime.  When I have time.  Which I don't right now.  And HEY!  No Bush-bashing, please!  I happen to be an avid Republican …  OK, sorry about that.  I don't mind you guys chatting, really.  It's fun to read.  Um, hope the suspense didn't kill you, BTW.  Review and let me know you're still alive!

Mallory:  Thanks!

Prophetess:  Only almost?  Drat.  My work is not yet done.  :D  You _will love the Death Eaters …  Thanks for reviewing!_

Peacockgirl:  Thank you!  

Jadeite:  The key word in there is *further.*  I know it's a little confusing, but it's mean tot be ambiguous and rather weird.  "Purifying" the bloodline simply means avoiding further alliances with Muggles … and Mudbloods do have Muggle blood, so while Lily wasn't _quite as bad as a common Muggle, she's still bad enough in Voldemort's eyes.  Um, yeah, Jeva's review answered your question better than I did, actually.  And thank you for the compliments!  _

Chrysta:  Thank you so much!  Really sorry to have taken so long with this chapter.  And you don't know how thrilled I am to hear a discerning reader say my plot is plausible.  That makes my day.  Ah, yes, Harry and James are indeed in deep … wool.  (Sorry, rabbit &~v~Jinx~v~ joke).  As for the spell – Malfoy was on the right track, but missing one vital piece of information.  The shielding spell can also be cast on close family members.  Hence Voldemort's ability to use it on James.  Yes, there's a possibility that Dumbledore & co. could take the Potters=Riddles fact quite well … and there's also the possibility that they might not.  Considering how the majority of Hogwartsians viewed Harry after they found out he was a Parselmouth, Harry can easily assume that most of the wizarding world will hate and fear him if they find out that YKW is his paternal grandfather.  And James … well, so many of his friends lost family & friends to Voldemort that there is no way on earth he'll ever come out and say, "Oh, by the way, you know those parents of yours?  My father killed 'em." Oh, I'm so glad you approved of the last chapter.  And you're right – Sirius just has to really believe it to … er … believe it, while Remus would have to be shown the proof.  Thank you!

Kranberries:  Oh, c'mon, you know you love the cliffhangers.  Thanks for the review!

Vanessa:  Thank you!

Kay:  Thanks!  

Hugh McDougal: Thank you!  Your website looks really cool; I'll submit this fic when I finish it, if you like.

Cellie:  Oh, thanks!  I'm so glad you enjoyed this chapter.  Peter the house-elf … oh, yeah.  That's him, all right.  A small, cowardly, evil house-elf.  Well, you can see I didn't take a month this time.  I took TWO months!  Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Ah, yes, you are right.  The blood-relative version of the spell *was* the one Voldemort used.

RavenLady:  Thank you!  I'm sure JKR is going to let Snape live … he's too important a character to kill off.

Tatum:  I think you're right … where did I have Harry say 'golly'?  I may have to change it.  Thanks for the review!

Elektra:  Welcome, and thanks so much!  I'm delighted you loved the fic.  Oh, you think I'm evil.  I – I – I think my feelings are badly hurt!  I doooon't want to write any more because you hate my beautiful plot twists!  Waaah!  Seriously, though, I'm delighted you like the plot.  Hmm, there are a few other agendas around.  I think.  I'd have to check my notes again to remember who has which agenda, of course, but, hey …  Outside interference?  Maybe, maybe not.  And, you know, you're right about the basilisk and the diary.  Malfoy was Not Supposed to Get the Basilisk Killed.  So glad you like the characterization!  I work very hard on it.  Ah … Voldemort POV?  That remains to be seen.  I may be able to do it, but then again I may not.  "Juxtaposition between malevolence and childishness…"  Hey, that's great!  Very impressive … I like it!  James's personality and Voldemort's wand?  Well, I wrote out a length explanation for that, which probably won't actually make it into the story, but the simple explanation is that a shadow (echo?) can be created by any spell, not just _Avada__ Kedavra.  After all, Wormtail's hand flew out of the wand.  The spell Voldemort cast on James was extremely powerful, and it basically did shut his body down, and separate his mind from his body.  Therefore (as I see it), his 'personality' could well have gotten into Voldemort's wand.  Well, Ididn't explain that very well, but I'm in a hurry so I'll leave it at that.  Delighted you like Harry!  Not being a fifteen-year-old boy myself, I'm having to study my brothers to get at what he's like.  Hope it's working.  Possibility of redemption for Peter?  Oh, definitely.  Personally, I thought I saw some foreshadowing of that in the books … though it may just be over-analysis.  I'm delighted you approve of Snape's POV!  Thanks again!_

Angelwriter14:  Um … OK … here!  Don't die!  Read the chapter!  Quick!  

_That's all, folks!  (Apologies to anyone I missed, and a closing all-around "Thank you – review again!")_


	13. Inconclusive

_"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said.  "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does.  Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."_

_Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the __Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer:  I hereby state and declare that Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and all other characters, situations, and items pertaining thereto are the property of J. K. Rowlings and whosoever may be her publishing companies.  The text below is a work of fanfiction, dealing with the aforementioned world of Harry Potter, and the author is reaping no pecuniary advantages from the presence of this story on the World Wide Web. 

A/N:  I apologize profusely for the delay, but I _do have some excuses.  College is keeping me very busy, and this was a difficult chapter because it involved so many complicated explanations and lengthy conversations.  In fact, this chapter consists almost entirely of dialogue, and I apologize for that, too.  It is not the most exciting chapter in the story, though it contains a great deal of very important information … and a fair bit of angst … The next chapter, I promise you, will involve a fair bit of action._

Many thanks to all reviewers – due to time constraints, I am unable to list you all here, but rest assured that it is primarily due to your encouragement and admonishment that I've managed to get this chapter out at all.  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_"Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?"_

_Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time._

_"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know."_

~ Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

* * * * *

_"He said my blood would make him stronger than if he'd used someone else's," Harry told Dumbledore.  "He said the protection my - my mother left in me - he'd have it too.  And he was right - he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face."_

_For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam of some­thing like triumph in Dumbledore's eyes.  But next second. Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him._

~Harry Potter in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * * * 

_Harry stared up at Dumbledore. "And then she sort of became normal again, and she couldn't remember anything she'd said. Was it -- was she making a real prediction?"_

_Dumbledore looked mildly impressed._

_"Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been." he said thoughtfully. "Who'd have thought it? That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should offer her a pay raise...."_

~ Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * * *

James quickly realized that the situation was a little tenser than he had first believed.  Sirius sighed and grimaced instead of laughing, Dumbledore turned and stared at him with a complete absence of twinkle, and Snape shot him a glare of concentrated hatred that he could almost feel like a physical blow.  James dropped his eyes, suddenly feeling abashed at his admittedly childish remark.  When he looked up, Snape had returned his black gaze to Sirius and was stalking toward him like the undernourished vampire he so strongly resembled.  

"'_Nutters' is not strong enough, Black," Snape hissed.  "You are a bloody __fool.  Coming in here when –"  He stopped short, narrowing his eyes and searching Sirius's face.  "Or perhaps you know you have no reason to be afraid?" he said softly.  _

A little bit of color flushed Sirius's gaunt, pale face, and he smiled unpleasantly.  "Why should I be afraid, Snape?  I'm not a cowardly Slytherin … speaking of which, how was your … _meeting?"_

_What?  Clueless and irritated, James glanced from Sirius to Snape – who, astoundingly, looked even angrier than he had before – then back again.  He halted briefly on Sirius's face, and his heart twisted painfully in his chest.  Sirius … he looked so … awful.  _

He'd never thought he'd see his best friend again.  For an eternity – at least, for fourteen years – James had assumed that Sirius was dead, tortured and killed by Death Eaters.  An illogical assumption, perhaps, but a natural one if … well, if everyone else was dead.  And now, miraculously, he was sitting in the same room as Sirius again.  And all he could think about was how sick Sirius looked, how much older and unhappier he seemed.  Irreparably damaged.  It had to have been Azkaban.

_Damn the bloody Ministry.  Twelve years in bloody Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, and he was innocent.  It's a miracle he's even alive, but … oh, God, he looks so hurt.  Haunted.  That's the word I want.  Like he's been through hell and isn't sure he's out of it yet.  And so old.  He's seen too much.  Hell, he must be fourteen years older than me now.  It isn't fair.  It wasn't supposed to be like this.  We were all supposed to get old together, brag about our kids winning the House Cup for Gryffindor twenty times in a row, celebrate four wedding anniversaries a year, have middle-aged crisis at the same time ... Not this.  Not Sirius looking like a rage-filled corpse and Peter … Peter.  Not … _

_"You want ME as your Secret-Keeper?  James – James – that's ludicrous!  Dumbledore – Sirius – why ME?"_

_"Look, Peter, we trust you as much as we trust them.  It's brilliant, old chap, Sirius is right.  This is the way it needs to be.  You'll do it for us, won't you?"_

_"I … I … I don't know.  I'll have to – to think about it.  B-but I won't let you down, James."_

_WHY?!_

"Enough!"  

James's head jerked up as Dumbledore's strident voice broke the escalating argument between Sirius and Snape.  He blinked, disconcerted to discover that he had completely spaced out for several minutes.  

The Headmaster – who, thankfully, looked much as he had fourteen years ago – was glaring sternly at Sirius.  Sirius dropped his head, briefly looking younger as a chastened expression chased the anger off his face.  Snape folded his arms and directed his scowl toward the wall beyond Sirius's head.

"There will be no more of these petty, immature arguments, gentlemen," the Headmaster said softly.  "Remember that you have agreed to trust each other – to _work together.  To cease wasting your time and energy – and mine – with your childish rivalry."  With sudden emphasis, he added, "Do you not see that divisions within our ranks will merely give Voldemort an advantage?"_

Sirius hunched his shoulders slightly and let out a faint, defeated sigh.  Snape, however, turned his scowl on Dumbledore – James had to admit that he'd apparently grown bolder as well as nastier over the years – and growled, "Which is precisely why he has sent _Potter here, Headmaster.  Surely __you can see __that."  _

James frowned, annoyed that Snape was _still saying his name as if it was a curse word, even after all these years.  _

"I do, Severus," Dumbledore assured him, now sounding like his own mild self.  "Nevertheless, I ask that you do not antagonize anyone over it.  Sirius," he went on heavily, "I am … disappointed."

Curious and worried, James looked back and forth between them.  Sirius now looked like a small child caught with both hands in the cookie jar – a jar of cookies reserved exclusively for the use of Professor Dumbledore, at that.  And Dumbledore really _did look disappointed … in fact, he was looking at Sirius with almost the same sad, reproachful expression that he had turned on a shrinking sixteen-year-old boy one full-moon night about twenty years ago …  The only difference was the lack of anger.  Apparently, whatever Sirius had done this time wasn't as bad as trying to feed Snape to a werewolf._

"I thought better of you than this, Sirius."  He had said that then, too, and this time it seemed that Sirius made the connection as well.  He swallowed and looked up, grimacing.

"I – I apologize, Sna – _Severus – for … for … anything I said which might have been misconstrued …"  James stifled a grin.  Whatever had happened to Sirius, it apparently hadn't changed his reluctance to apologize to Slytherins.  Specifically, one Slytherin._

"That is not what I am referring to now, Sirius," Dumbledore interrupted, still leveling the deeply-disappointed-and-grieved look at the taller wizard.  "Why are you in here?  I seem to recollect hearing you promise that you would stay away from this room."

_What?_

Sirius flinched slightly, then straightened his shoulders.  A look of dogged determination settled over his thin face, and he gritted out, "I am sorry for – failing to keep – for breaking my promise, Headmaster.  But I talked with Harry, and some of the things he said made me think that we might have been mistaken, so I came here.  And I am sorry for going back on my word, but I'm not sorry I came, because Harry is right.  This really is James, and –"

"What?!"  James did not realize he had yelled the word aloud until he saw every eye in the room swivel and fixate on him.  But once he had their attention, he decided it was too good an opportunity to pass by.  He had questions, damn it, and he wanted them answered.  "What are you talking about?  Why – what – what do you mean, it's really me?  Who did you think I was?  Why –"  He faltered and broke off, suddenly disconcerted by Dumbledore's intense, searching stare.

Silence cloaked the little room.  Snape glanced uncomfortably between James and Dumbledore, Sirius stared at the floor, flicking sideways glances at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore simply kept his gimlet gaze on James's face.  In less than ten seconds, James felt like squirming away and hiding on the other side of the bed to get away from the scrutiny.   He forced himself to keep his eyes on Dumbledore's crooked nose, refused to drop his gaze.  It was hard, though … a wave of unaccountable vertigo was sweeping over him, loosening nausea in his stomach and speckling his vision with black dots.  His head began to pound.  Maybe he'd been hurt worse than he thought.

Finally, Dumbledore deigned to answer.  "It is not so much a question of _who you are," he said mildly, "as of what is wrong with you."  He tilted his head to the side; his hair and beard went with the pull of gravity and hung at an odd angle to his face.  "We did a few tests last night," Dumbledore went on mildly, "and – I suppose I should tell you the simple truth – there are a number of dark spells on you, none of which we can identify or remove.  We believe that Voldemort cast them on you while you were his prisoner."_

James choked, clenching his fists on the edge of the blanket, and squeezed his eyes shut against both the dizziness and the truth.  He had thought the nightmare was over now, thought he was free.  But, no, of course not.

_Grow up, Jamesie.  This isn't like your old Hogwarts days, when everything turned out all right no matter how stupid you acted.  This is the Real Thing, where nothing at all turns out right, no matter how hard you try or how much you suffer.  At least, it doesn't turn out right if you happen to be a Marauder._

"None of them?" he said faintly.  

"No," Dumbledore said, and James thought he saw something like sympathy behind the old wizard's glittering spectacles.  "None of them.  Which is why it is not safe for any of us to spend much time around you.  We have no way of knowing what you may do, or what may be done through you.  I am sorry."

_Well.  At least he's being honest about it.  Brutally honest.  A hell of a lot too honest._

"I …"

There really didn't seem to be anything to say.  He dropped his head into his hands, clutching at his throbbing temples, and tried not to show how upset he was.  Really, he ought to have a bit more self control than this.  Damn it, Gryffindors didn't cry like little kids on the slightest provocation.  They had stiff upper lips, and devil-may-care attitudes, and more courage than they could ever possibly need, and … 

_Why me?_

Sirius looked sideways at the Headmaster, his fingers fidgeting nervously with his sleeves.  "So … does this mean, Headmaster, that you really think it is James now?  Not some … Death Eater trick?"

Dumbledore glanced sideways at Snape, who was scowling at the floor in much the same way he had previously been scowling at Sirius.  "Yes, I think so.  But, come, we should continue this discussion somewhere else.  James needs his rest."  The Headmaster glanced around, smiled vaguely, and added, "There is, also, a distressing lack of seating accommodation in here.  I, for one, am growing old and do not wish to put unnecessary strain on my feet."

Sirius scowled, then hastily rearranged his face into his most convincingly pleading expression.  "Headmaster, please … I wanted to talk to James some more, I –"

"Your promise, Sirius," the Headmaster said gently.

Sirius carried on, pretending to have been stricken unaccountably deaf.  "I haven't seen him for fourteen years, and it really is him, you know.  I'm sure he can hear whatever it is we have to say – or maybe I could come back after our talk, and –"

The Headmaster stepped toward Sirius and lowered his voice, but James still caught the soft words.  "Sirius.  How do you think Harry would feel if something happened to you?  What if James is under the _Imperius, what then?  Be reasonable, my dear boy.  We will get this straightened out, but for now you must heed my advice."_

Grinding his teeth audibly, Sirius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Damned if I will," then jerked his head in an angry, affirmative nod.  "Fine," he growled.   "We'll go and … _talk … about it."_

James's heart sank.  He lifted his head out of his hands, staring forlornly after them as they turned toward the door.  His head was still spinning and throbbing unmercifully, and he briefly considered asking for medical attention.  At the thought, his pride rose up in revolt, and he dropped the matter.

"Sirius!" he called.  All three of them paused, and Sirius turned quickly back toward him, looking alarmingly eager and anxious.  "Thank you," James mumbled awkwardly, wishing Greasy-Git Snape was not standing there listening.  "For coming, I mean.  I … Take care, will you?  Of yourself and of Harry.  And – and if you see Remus, will you tell him I'm sorry?  Sorry for … for … just … tell him, will you?  And don't …"  His throat closed up for a moment, refusing to let the words out.  "Don't come back until we know what's wrong," he finally managed, dragging each syllable out with painful difficulty.  "Don't – don't take any risks.  Please.  Promise?"

One hand tight around the doorknob, Sirius stared at him through unreadable, cavernous eyes.  "All right, James," he finally said, softly, as though trying to prevent Snape from hearing.  "I'll tell him.  And I'll be careful.  You – just rest, and don't worry about it."  He hovered for a moment; Dumbledore laid a hand lightly on his arm.  He started, then offered James a strained smile.  "Everything will come out all right.  You'll see."

Dumbledore drew him away, and the door swung shut.  James stared at it for a long minute, numb and still.  

The dizzying pressure on his head lifted without warning; his vision and hearing cleared.  Perversely, he wished the headache had remained.  At least the physical pain might have distracted him from his emotional turmoil … at the moment, for instance, he was feeling much as though someone had offered him a ladder out of a pit of Dementors, then snatched it away again – or maybe offered him an antidote for a poison swirling through his veins, then dropped the bottle en route.  On purpose.  And laughed at him.

Dark spells.  It had been too good to be true.  Naturally, Voldemort had had a plan.  He'd been right – he and Harry had been _let to escape.  Who knew what might happen if Dumbledore let him loose?  It wasn't safe, not at all.  He could go berserk, or act as an unwitting spy, or blow up, or … anything.  Anything at all._

Miserably, James dropped back against the pillows, throwing an arm over his face to block out the orange curtains.  They reminded him way too much of the orange curtains Lily had made for the kitchen back home.  And thoughts of home were strictly taboo.  That way lay despair, pain, and loss of control over his own actions.  Maybe even insanity.  He had no intention of finding out.  

Rest, Dumbledore had said.  Well, it seemed he'd have nothing else to do, so he might as well try to sleep.   

_The only comfort in this whole damned mess is that Voldemort is not going to be pleased. _

_I hope.  _

* * * * *

When the infirmary door swung open, Harry jerked his head around so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash.  He had been on edge for what had felt like decades, waiting for Sirius to come back, wondering what was happening.  And now …

"Sirius!" he cried eagerly, jerking bolt upright on his bed as his godfathered entered.  "Did you –"

His words froze on his tongue, and his spirits fell.  Sirius was not alone.  Behind him came the stately (if bizarre) figure of Headmaster Dumbledore, and Harry gulped nervously.  It occurred to him with uncomfortable clarity that Dumbledore just might not approve of the Let's-Prove-that-Dad-Is-Dad-by-Talking-to-Him plan of action.  "Er … hello, Headmaster Dumbledore," he said nervously.

Then Professor Snape stalked into the room on Dumbledore's heels, and Harry's already-low spirits accelerated toward his toes and began leaking out.  Manfully, he restrained the urge to clap his hands over his eyes and scream _Just go away and let me talk with Sirius already!!!  _

"Hello, Professor Snape," he said with false sincerity.  "How are you?"

Unsurprisingly, Snape scowled at him.  Relived, Harry took that to mean that he could drop the effort to be polite to his least favorite teacher.  Energetically, he changed the subject.

"Headmaster, can I go see my dad now?  I feel fine, really I do."  

Equally unsurprisingly, Dumbledore shook his head.  "It would be unwise, Harry."

Stalemated, Harry began considering what other line of attack could prove effective.  Thankfully, Sirius spoke up at that point, folding his arms and fixing Dumbledore with a piercing stare.  "So you believe now that it really _is James Potter, sir?"_

Harry's eyes widened, and he leaned forward hopefully.  "What?  Do you?  Is it true?  Why?  What happened?  Sirius –"

Dumbledore sighed, and sat down in a chair by Harry's bedside.  He instantly stood back up, and removed Harry's breakfast tray from beneath him.  A few forlorn waves of his wand repaired a broken dish and removed any traces of consumables from his robes.  "Glad to see you've been eating well, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly, and sat down again.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" Sirius asked, briefly transferring his piercing stare over to his godson.

"Fine," Harry said shortly.  "Even better than I was last time you saw me.  Speaking of which – _what's going on with my dad?"_

He glared up at Sirius, feeling unaccountably – or perhaps very accountably, depending on one's point of view – angry, frustrated, and impatient.  But the foul mood melted away as soon as Sirius smiled.

In fact, Harry's mood took a sudden, unprecedented swing from the _going-to-start-breaking-things-any-minute zone into the __happy-enough-to-run-around-and-kiss-House-Elves sector.  Harry could count the number of times he had seen Sirius really __smile, like he was actually happy, on the fingers of one hand.  And here was Sirius with a true, delighted, almost peaceful smile showing off his teeth – which weren't as yellow as one might expect, considering the probable lack of tooth-cleaning materials in Azkaban.  Harry blinked hopefully, and felt a tentative smile tugging at his own mouth.  A lot of the anger had been leached out of Sirius's eyes; a few of the tight lines around his mouth and eyes had relaxed.  True, he still looked tired, vexed, angry, and hurt, but … he didn't look as if he was going to blow up at any moment and start indiscriminately cursing either himself or everyone else in the vicinity.  And that was assuredly a good sign._

The wide smile still in place, Sirius went down on one knee next to Harry's bed, thereby bringing himself about on eye-level with his godson.  "Thanks, Harry," he said softly.  "You were right.  It's him.  It really is."  He caught his breath, and let out a soft, wondering laugh.  "It's James."

In later years – heck, in later _minutes – Harry would be heartily embarrassed by the memory, but at the time it seemed perfectly natural.  He let out a yodel of joy, at the apex of which his voice cracked horribly, leaned forward, and flung his arms around his godfather.  _

Sirius had evidently not expected to receive an armful of fifteen-year-old wizard in his precarious half-crouching position, for he went over backward with a muffled exclamation that Harry decided to pretend he hadn't heard.  Harry banged one of his elbows painfully on the tiled floor as he went down, dragging half the bedclothes with him.  The bone stung like mad, but he ignored the sensation in favor of grinning like Dobby on an overdose of butter-beer.  Sirius believed him.  Sirius had gone and talked to James, and now he knew it was James, and surely everything would be all right now, because if anyone could tell, it had to be Sirius.  And Sirius had believed him!  Gratefully, Harry tightened his hug, and one of Sirius's arms slid half-hesitantly around him to return the favor.  Apparently Sirius's other arm was trapped awkwardly beneath him, but Harry was too ecstatic to be bothered by only receiving 50% of a badly-needed embrace.

Then Professor Snape cleared his throat loudly, somehow managing to make even that brief, common sound emerge derisive and scornful.  Instantly humiliated, Harry sat up and started disentangling himself from his sheets.  Red-faced, he remembered that he was a dignified fifth-year student, a Triwizard Champion, a hero, and, most importantly, fifteen years old, darn it, and therefore he shouldn't go around hugging people.  At any rate, not in front of an audience.  That kind of thing should be left to six-year-olds.  Besides, he'd just realized that the frightful "infirmary robe" Madame Pomfrey had provided him with gaped at the back.

At least he wasn't wearing that pair of red boxers which he'd charmed Golden Snitches onto. 

Sirius rolled back up onto his knees, wincing slightly, and helped Harry bundle the sheets and blankets back up onto the bed.  Then he stood up, throwing Snape a defiant look that clearly said, "_Well, I may be an undignified, childish Gryffindor, but at least I've got someone who's not so utterly repulsed by me that they can't give me a hug.  Which is more than you can say, you greasy, hook-nosed git."_

Harry pushed his disgraceful exhibition firmly to the back of his mind, to later be mulled over along with other, equally humiliating occurrences such as the time he had fainted in front of the Dementors or the time he had asked Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.

In other words, he tried his level best to forget it had ever happened.

Resolutely, he turned to face Dumbledore, staying on his feet in the hopes that the Headmaster would realize he meant business.  "Do _you believe it's really my Dad, Professor Dumbledore?" he asked as respectfully as he could._

Dumbledore sighed again, firmly establishing a trend.  "I believe there is a strong likelihood that, however it happened, James Potter was not resurrected by Voldemort or his Death Eaters.  How he then has been returned to us, I cannot say, and I will not be wholly convinced that Voldemort had no hand in it until we learn why he is alive.  However," he added quickly, raising a hand to forestall Harry's protest, "I am strongly leaning toward the belief that it is James.  Truly, and not a doppelganger."  

Harry beamed.  "How – what changed your mind?  I mean, why do you think Voldemort didn't do it, now?"

Dumbledore turned toward Snape, raising his eyebrows as if asking a question, and Snape shrugged in angry resignation.  "You can thank Professor Snape for my alteration of belief, Harry," he said, and Harry felt his mouth drop open in astonishment.  Wisely, though, he restrained his exclamation of suspicious astonishment.

Sirius was more vocal.  "You?" he said distrustfully, eyeing Snape as he might have eyed a Blast-Ended Skrewt.  An _evil Blast-Ended Skrewt.  "Why would you go to any trouble to –"_

"If you cannot say anything intelligent, Black, pray keep your mouth shut," Snape sneered, and turned smoothly on his heel, his black cape billowing out behind him.  "If you'll kindly excuse me, Headmaster, I have a great deal of work to do."

"Certainly, Severus," Dumbledore said cordially.  "Catch up on your sleep, why don't you.  No need to go into the school year exhausted."

A slamming door was Snape's only response.  Harry let out a relieved breath at the sound, then quickly tried to look as if he hadn't.  The air felt clearer without any Slytherins breathing it, but Dumbledore might not look kindly on such a sentiment.

"What did he tell you?" Sirius demanded.

With calm deliberation, Dumbledore removed a small sack of lemon drops from one voluminous robe pocket and popped one into his mouth before answering.  "You are both aware of what Severus does for me, are you not?"

"Yes," Sirius muttered.

Harry, less certain, hazarded, "Does … is he … er … is he _spying for you again, sir?"_

"He is indeed."  Dumbledore's gaze moved from Sirius to Harry, then back again.  "He returned to Voldemort on the night of the Tournament, and convinced him that the only reason why he had not come as soon as the summons arrived was that I would have been suspicious.  Severus has not been particularly eloquent about the details of what occurred, but I know that Voldemort cast the Cruciatus curse on him at least twice."

Harry looked down at the bedspread, feeling guiltier than Sirius looked.  They both might hate Snape … or, at least, loathe him with an unquenchable passion … but it felt rather wrong to think scornful things about someone who went through that much pain to help Dumbledore.  If, of course, Snape really _was helping Dumbledore._

"As a consequence," Dumbledore went on, "he is uniquely well situated to give me information on what happened that night."  

Harry's head jerked up in renewed hope.  "You mean he –"

Harry broke off, and Dumbledore, after pausing politely to see if he had more to say, continued.  "Severus arrived here a short while ago, demanding to know if the Potters were at Hogwarts.  Naturally, I filled him in on all that has happened, and, once he realized that we were unsure whether our surprise visitor was genuine, he demanded details."  Dumbledore paused to cough, looking mildly regretful.  "Severus has not grown any fonder of your father over the years, Harry, and, sad as it is to say, he appeared quite eager to believe that James Potter was not truly alive again.  Apparently it had not occurred to him that there were any grounds for doubt.  However, as you will no doubt be delighted to hear, he found our reasons insufficiently convincing in the face of his own knowledge – and he told me as much.  He has assured me of three things that tip the balance in favor of James being genuine.  First, he spoke to Peter Pettigrew –"

Sirius snarled suddenly, and Harry jumped in surprise.  "What's _he got to do with it?" Sirius demanded angrily.  "What does he know?  Why didn't Snape just kill the bloody –"  He broke off, breathing heavily, and avoided Harry's eyes.  _

"Severus is convinced," Dumbledore went on mildly, "that Pettigrew, at least, believes that James is genuine.  I will not go into the details of their conversation now, but believe me when I say that Severus is a good judge of character.  After hearing the news, Severus went to Godric's Hollow Cemetery – something which I should have thought of," he added with a regretful tilt of his bushy eyebrows.  

"So should I," Sirius muttered under his breath.

"Is that where my parents are – were – buried?" Harry asked cautiously.  

"Indeed it is."  Dumbledore leveled one of his patented slow, keen, considering stares on Harry, who might have begun to squirm if he hadn't been holding his infirmary robe together with both hands.   "The cemetery is now considered a national wizarding memorial, and the Ministry - the Tourism Office, I believe – pays for its upkeep.  At the moment, the caretakers are two elderly gentlemen who live in a cottage close by the cemetery.  Severus spoke with them –"

Sirius muttered something under his breath, in which Harry caught the words "find," "bodies," and "hiring," but Dumbledore did not stop.

" – after examining the tomb and determining that it had indeed been damaged and repaired as the article in the _Daily Prophet had said.  From them, he learned that the damage to the tomb – and the disappearance of James's body – had occurred in the evening of June the twenty-fourth.  Now, we know that Voldemort did not send any of his Death Eaters away while you were still present, Harry."_

Harry nodded, tight-throated.  In his peripheral vision, he saw Sirius glance at him anxiously, then reach out and rest a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.  After a moment's consideration, Harry decided that he didn't mind being babied if Professor Snape wasn't there to sneer at him.

"Professor Snape tells me that he can vouch for the presence of every living Death Eater, save Karkaroff and those whom we know to be in Azkaban, after his own arrival that night.  Since less than an hour is left unaccounted for – and since he tells me that Voldemort was still meting out punishment for incompetence and arranging for a quick removal from a compromised location –"

"Compromised location?" Sirius muttered derisively.  "Since when does Snape talk like a Hit Wizard?"

" – and arranging for a quick removal from a compromised location," Dumbledore continued urbanely, "I think we may assume that no quick visit to Godric's Hollow had been paid in the meantime.   This persuades me that there may, after all, be truth in Voldemort's story that he did not intentionally bring James back to life.  This," he added with a courteous nod in the direction of the younger Gryffindors, "and, of course, your laudable beliefs in James's veracity."

Harry ignored the display of Dumbledore's extensive vocabulary in favor of grabbing Sirius's hand off his shoulder and shaking it jubilantly.  Mindful of his dignity, he ducked Sirius's attempt at giving him a godfatherly hug, and turned eagerly back to the Headmaster.  "Does this mean I can see him, then?  Will everything be all right?"

Before Dumbledore even opened his mouth, Harry knew, from the expiration of the familiar twinkle, that he was not going to get the answer he wanted.  "Alas, no," the old man sighed, and Harry dropped down on the edge of his bed, glaring morosely at the floor.

"It would not be wise, Harry – and that goes for you too, Sirius.  Even if Voldemort did not plan James's return – and I shall not know whether he expected it or not until I find explanation of that spell which he claims to have used – I have no doubt that Voldemort took full advantage of the incident.  Sending James to portkey you into his stronghold was only the beginning of his plan, Harry, I am certain of it.  There are spells on James which we cannot remove, and until I know what they are and how to get rid of them, it is not safe for either of you to be near him.  Do you understand me?"

"How soon do you think you can get them off?" Harry asked stubbornly.

 "I do not know," Dumbledore answered mournfully.  He held up another lemon drop between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it as if it could comfort him.  "If we knew what they were … but James is the only one who could tell us that, and then only if he were awake while they were being cast.  And if he was, Voldemort would have cast a strong memory spell on him.  The only effective way to remove a memory spell is with the application of an Unforgivable Curse, which puts that option out of the question."

Sirius's shoulders slumped.  "That's no good, then.  Because Voldemort already cast the Cruciatus on him."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in faint surprise.  "Good heavens, is that the truth?  Why would Voldemort do a thing like that?"

"Harry said it was because James criticized some prophecy Voldemort was babbling – Headmaster?"  Sirius's voice caught in alarm at the blank mask that had suddenly descended over the Dumbledore's face.  "Is something wrong?"

The odd expression vanished, and Dumbledore's normal courteously vague smile reappeared.  "Not that I know of, Sirius," he replied.  "I merely remembered something.  Sirius, my dear boy, would you mind going and apprising Remus of these new developments?  You will find him in the library, researching Dark curses with a view to finding this one that James is suffering from.  I would like a word with Harry alone."

Sirius frowned, obviously hesitating between curiosity and indignation.  Ultimately, he decided on restraint.  With a quick, "I'll be back soon, Harry," he stalked out of the infirmary and shut the door behind himself rather more loudly than necessary.

Slowly, Harry turned to face Dumbledore.  The old man was directing a concerned, sympathetic smile at him.  "What prophecy would this be, Harry?"

Harry swallowed hard, unsure whether he should panic and flee the room, or break down in tears and confess everything.  Neither option seemed like something any of the _true Marauders would do, so he opted for a middle course.  "Just some prophecy," he muttered, shrugging.  "About Voldemort being all-powerful.  It was really dumb.  I don't remember it well at all."_

"I see."  The semi-jovial smile died away, and Dumbledore inserted the lemon drop into his mouth with a heavy sigh.  "It would, not, by any chance, be a garbled prophecy promising Voldemort ultimate victory if 'the ancient blood of Salazar Slytherin is no further diluted by the tainted bloody of Muggles'?  Or anything similar?"

Harry thought for a moment that his heart had stopped, but the moment of frozen time passed, and the organ in question began to hammer frantically and painfully against his rib cage, assuring him that it was alive, if not well.  "W-what?" he faltered, clutching at the edge of the bed in near-panic.  "You … know?"

Dumbledore gave him a slow, solemn nod, then sighed again, still more heavily.  "Do you remember, Harry, the question that you asked of me in your first year at Hogwarts which I did not answer?"

For a moment, Harry simply stared at him, lost by such a turn in the conversation.  Then his tired mind slipped back to a functional state, and he nodded slowly.  "I asked you …"  He hesitated again, his throat tightening in an undefined mixture of alarm and pain.  "I asked why Voldemort would want to kill me in the first place.  And you said I would have to wait to know."

"Indeed.  I believe the time has now come when you need to know – if you wish to.  Depending on what Voldemort told you which you have _not seen fit to tell me –"_

Harry blushed hotly.

"– you may have already guessed much of it.  In fact, you may even have some beliefs about it which are incorrect.  I hope I will be able to set any worries you have to rest."

Dumbledore's eyes took on a faraway expression, and he gazed distantly past Harry's left shoulder (at a painting of an desperate-faced patient currently knotting his bedsheets together into a rope ladder).  After an appropriately ominous pause, he began to speak.  "I do indeed know about that prophecy, Harry.  It was spoken by Sybil Trelawney about thirty years ago." 

"But I thought –"

"Patience, if you please.  All shall be explained in time."  Dumbledore swallowed his lemon drop, and continued.  "I thought nothing of it at the time – not even enough to write it down, which I now regret greatly.  As dear Sybil – then a young and flightly lass of about forty – had yet to make a prediction worth taking seriously, I, alas, assumed this to be another mistake.  Fifteen years later – just few months after you were born, actually – Severus Snape (who had recently begun spying for me, at great risk to his own life) came to me and told me that Voldemort had set one of his most trusted Death Eaters to researching the lineage of Salazar Slytherin, with emphasis on branches of descendents who were alive today.  He told me, further, that he believed there was a link between the recent murder of the McKinnon family and the even more gruesome destruction of the entire Prewett clan.  Curious, I did some research myself, and found that both of these families were, in fact, descended from Slytherin – but they were different from the other families that claim such descent only because they also had Muggle blood in their background.  At that point, partly because of this research and partly because of a few other things Severus had told me, I realized that Voldemort must be aware of the prophecy, and must take it to mean that he is in great danger from any less than pureblooded descendent of Slytherin.  I researched further, and found that the only descendents remaining who were not unimpeachably pureblooded were … the Potters."

Harry's eyes widened slowly.  An odd, disbelieving joy was rising in him; Dumbledore _knew, and he was not recoiling in horror.  If Dumbledore didn't mind … if he already knew … Harry could tell him everything, and he would make sure everything was all right.  _

But Dumbledore was still talking, his voice now reassuring and gentle.  "I know that comes as terrible news to you, Harry, but there is no need to be worried.  It is not true."

_What?_

"WHAT?!"  Harry bolted to his feet, blood pounding in his ears.  "It's – it's not???"

Dumbledore looked slightly concerned.  "No, indeed.  Pray sit down, Harry – Poppy would have my head, beard and all, if she caught you jumping around like that."  Harry collapsed back onto the bed, and Dumbledore wordlessly offered him a lemon drop, which Harry quickly waved away.  

"No – no thank you, sir – please, can you finish explaining?"  He tried hard to keep his voice from quivering, but between hope and fear, it was very difficult.

"Certainly."  Dumbledore retracted the bag and tucked it into his robes again.  "You see, Harry, I was at school with your great-great grandmother, and … ah … dear me, how shall I put this?"

He mused for a moment, while Harry wondered desperately what on _earth his great-great-grandmother had to do with anything._

"Well.  Let us say that the depth of her love overpowered the extent of her morals – which were sadly curtailed to begin with – and her unwitting fiancé did not realize, Slytherin Head Boy though he was, that her sudden haste in marrying him was due to a certain indiscretion and its consequences."

Harry blinked in complete incomprehension.  "I – I don't understand.  Why does it matter when my great-great-grandmother got married?"

"Let me try again," Dumbledore sighed.  "It is, of course, your father's mother's grandmother of whom I speak, and the husband in question is the link with the line of Slytherin.  Before that marriage, your great-great-grandmother's line was quite bereft of any connection with that blood.  And, sad as I am to cast discredit on a lady's name, I must say that my own knowledge from my school days leads me to positively conclude that, even after the marriage, the line was _still bereft of any such connection."_

"What?"

Dumbledore sighed again.  "You see, Harry, James's mother's father was not actually the son of James's mother's grandmother's husband.  I was acquainted with the – actual father, shall we say, and while he was not a particularly admirable young man, he was, at least, no relation to Salazar Slytherin.  So, you see, Harry, you are _not actually Slytherin's descendent … Voldemort, sadly, is unaware of that.  All genealogical records show that James's mother was a definite pure-blooded descendent of Slytherin.  Then she married the Muggle Potter, meaning that James was – is – a halfblood, and as his wife was also a Muggle-born … well, it is for that reason, I assume, that Voldemort attempted to exterminate your family." _

He paused briefly, looking at the dumbfounded Harry, and went on sadly.  "I blame myself, in part, for your parents' deaths.  For many months, the Death Eaters made no move against James and Lily, and I thought that perhaps Voldemort knew of the error in the records – knew that James and his mother were not, in reality, of Slytherin blood.  I should have known he was simply biding his time, and gone out of my way to make it known that James was no threat to him … at least, not because of that prophecy.  But I did not, and I have regretted it often."  

The Headmaster fell silent again, and Harry stirred himself to speak.  He felt as if he had been pushed off a cliff and had yet to hit the ground.  His chest ached painfully, and he wished Sirius was there.  "So … my – my dad's mother was descended from Salazar Slytherin, only she wasn't really because her father was a bast – er, wasn't really what everybody thought he was – and Voldemort didn't know about it, so he attacked my dad because my dad's father was a Muggle named Potter?"

He must have sounded odd, for Dumbledore was giving a curious, troubled look.  "That is the gist of the matter, Harry."

"And so I'm not really any relation to Voldemort."

"That is correct.  You need not be worried."

"So you weren't lying to me on purpose when you said I was a Parselmouth because Voldemort put part of himself into me."

"True."

"And the fact that he couldn't kill me didn't have anything to do with the prophecy."

"Not that I know of," Dumbledore agreed gravely.

Harry blinked hard.  He had a vague feeling that he should be simulating happiness, but he was trying too hard not to cry.  His eyes felt hot and prickly, but he was too proud to rub at them.  "Well, that's a relief," he said tonelessly.  

_I should have known better than to hope.  He doesn't know the truth - he just thinks he does.  He thinks that Voldemort thinks that my dad's mother was descended from Slytherin, and that's what makes me a threat.  He'd still hate me if he knew what I really am.  He thinks I'm perfectly normal and mostly Muggle.  _

_It isn't fair!_

"Harry?" Dumbledore's voice broke solicitously into his bitter thoughts.  "Is something wrong, Harry?"

"No," Harry said quickly, looking down at his bare feet.  "I'm just really relieved.  I don't want to be related to him."  

There was a brief silence, then Dumbledore said comfortingly, "The prophecy is actually a good thing, Harry.  If Voldemort somehow heard it during his travels abroad – and Trelawney predicted the same thing independently – then there may be truth in it.  And if it is so, Voldemort has violated its conditions himself.  When he took your blood in June, Harry, he added a great deal of Muggle blood to his own veins.  _That is what I believe the prophecy means.  I believe he has weakened himself by his actions, caught himself in a net of his own plots.  Your sufferings were not all in vain."_

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, twisting the sheet back and forth between his hands.  "That's a great comfort."

_I don't have as much Muggle blood in me as he thinks I do.  A lot of what I have **is Slytherin's blood.  For all I know, he may have made himself ****stronger.  Unless he was lying to me!  Maybe Dad's not really his son, and he's lying to get us to – no.  Dad wouldn't lie to me, and he said his mum told him about it before Voldemort ever started after him.  It's true, and I can't tell Dumbledore about it because then he wouldn't trust me.  He only trusts me now because he thinks I'm not descended from Voldemort because one of my ancestors was a bastard.  Well, that's just wonderful.******_

****

When he looked up, Dumbledore was surveying his watch with a concerned expression.  "I have little time left," the old wizard explained when he caught Harry's eyes on him.  "Is there anything else you wish to say or ask, Harry?"

"No."  Harry kept staring at his toes.

Dumbledore paused a moment, perplexity and worry warring on his face.  "Well … I have _some good news for you at least, Harry.  Remus and Sirius will be remaining at Hogwarts at least until Christmas, unless I need to send them on brief errands."_

Harry's tight throat loosened unexpectedly, and he looked up, surprised at the depth of pleasure he felt.  "Really?"

"Yes indeed.  They can help me keep an eye on things here, help keep an eye on _you, and assist in keeping James secret and safe."_

Though still unable to smile, Harry did feel considerably better.  His godfather would still be around, even if he couldn't visit James.  

"And," Dumbledore added impressively, "I have something else for you.  This is, after all, yours."  With a flourish, he produced a worn piece of parchment from the sleeve of his robe, and held it out to Harry.

"The Marauders' Map!" Harry cried in surprise and delight, snatching it hastily.  "Thank you, sir."

"Remus assisted me in making a copy for my own use, earlier," Dumbledore explained.  He cocked one white eyebrow, and added, "I trust you will not be abusing this trust in order to sneak down and see James before I consider it safe?"

A red flush rose in Harry's cheeks, but he couldn't quite bring himself to admit that he _had been planning such a nefarious action.  He mumbled something non-commital, and tucked the parchment carefully under his pillow.  _

"One last thing," Dumbledore said as he rose to leave.  "You mentioned that Voldemort threatened your friends?"

Cold fear washed back into Harry's mind.  "Yes," he said woodenly.  

"I see.  I will arrange for wards to be put up around the Weasley and Granger residences, and I will see to it that other protectionary measures are taken.  You need not worry, Harry – your friends will be quite safe."

"Thank you," Harry whispered.

Dumbledore paused again at the doorway, looking sad and old.  "If something is troubling you, Harry," he said gently, "I am always ready to listen, as is Sirius."

Harry did not look up.  "I know."

Another brief silence, then a brief draft and a soft click announced Dumbledore's departure.  Harry threw himself down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow.  One of his hands brushed a corner of the Map, and a grim resolve grew in his mind.  Dumbledore and Sirius weren't the only ones always ready to listen.  Dad was there too, now, and no matter what Dumbledore thought or wanted, if the Map could help Harry get down to see his dad, he was jolly well going to use it.

_Even if it is a very Slytherin-ish thing to do._

END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN

~~~~~~~~~

**Responses to Reviews:**

_Because of my great lack of time, I decided to limit myself to ten minutes' work on this.  That means I'm only managing to answer a few questions.  Apologies to those of you who don't get answers to your queries; I figured you'd rather have the new chapter with fewer notes than nothing at all._

Jeva:  Thank you for the long review!  'Twas great … and I promise you, Grandaddy Voldie will make an appearance in the next chapter.

Shei:  Well … I'm all about the big happy families too … I'll admit it before it's too late.  I mean, before it's too obvious.  And you are right: it is Dementor.  I don't know what's wrong with me.  Thank you very much for pointing that out.  I'm afraid I haven't got time to fix it in anything I've already typed, but I WILL get it right in forthcoming chapters.  Ah … _don't get me started on real people who resemble the book characters … there are two boys at my school (friends!) who look so much like the teenaged versions of James and Sirius that I swear it scares me.  I probably freak them out by staring at them whenever I see them.  It's eerie._

Kitana:  Voldemort has no concrete evidence, but he definitely doesn't trust Snape.  He has grave suspicions, and … let's just say things aren't going to get any better for Severus in the foreseeable future.

Indigo Ziona:  Like Harry, James has an odd preconceived notion that his friends will recoil in disgust if he tells them who he is.  You'd think, after one of his best friends turned out to be a werewolf, that he'd have more trust.  But … knowing human nature … maybe he isn't so very wrong after all.

Whisper:  Thanks for the review!  Dumbledore is being difficult because he – well, he is difficult.  He's running a war; it's his job to be suspicious.  Harry and James are keeping quite about their relationship to Voldemort because they know the general public will tear them into small, unidentifiable pieces if it gets wind of that fact.  Remember how terrified Hogwarts got when it though Harry was the Heir of Slytherin?  As for James being older … sorry.  I did want him to be, but it just didn't work out with the spell that I chose.  He's mentally somewhat older than he looks, though.  I mean, he had fourteen years to think, and that's got to make a person smarter.

Andromeda:  Thank you!  I always appreciate advice and analytic comments.  I'm glad you approve of the length and relatively slow pace; character development is actually the part of the story that interests me the most, though I have difficulty making the story progress at all when I work on it too much.  Harry will be making plenty of mistakes in chapters to come, and James will find out that his son had a far from idealistic youth.  Snape will not be "redeemed" in the sense that he turns into a nice guy, but he _may grow slightly less vindictive, depending on where the story goes.  _

SilverDawn:  Why would Lucius hate Severus?  They're both intelligent Slytherins … they both despise Weasleys … they were both Death Eaters … they both loathed James Potter … Severus is nice to Lucius's son … they may even be friends!  I wouldn't call Voldemort "soft," for he does have evil ulterior motives, but you must remember that he is human.  If barely so.  

Ron's Secret Admirer:  Thank you for the many reviews!  I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story.   Hmm … it never occurred to me that Voldemort might have had some other motive for giving Peter a hand made of silver.  That could be interesting later.

Hex:  Whoa, watch it with that stick!  But, look, I've posted.  :^)  Your review inspired me to get the chapter done today, as opposed to next weekend.  Thank you.  


	14. Distrust

_"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said.  "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does.  Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."_

_Hagrid's__ chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the _Goblet of Fire__

*

Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Never has been, never will be.   

A/N:  My deepest apologies for the delay: I can only say that I am truly pathetic … and, more importantly, that the inspirational Muse for this tale was on sabbatical.  But wait!  I have _more _to apologize for.  In all truth, this is only half of the planned material for this chapter.  It became too long … and I haven't yet finished the second half.  Therefore, despite the promise I made that action would appear in this chapter, it is being put off until the next one.  Again.  

My sole excuse is that the inspiration for scenes involving action comes to me rather infrequently, and anything I try to write when I don't _want _to write it is of exceedingly poor quality.  In short: it sucks.

So, I hope that this chapter will content you all until the promised material comes.  Hopefully, that will be soon, as I have finally figured out some complicated plot points.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_"You don't believe this!  Wouldn't Sirius have told you they'd changed the plan?"_

_"Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter," said Lupin. "I assume that's why you didn't tell me, Sirius?" he said casually over Pettigrews head._

_"Forgive me, Remus," said Black._

_"Not at all, Padfoot, old friend," said Lupin…_

~ Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black, in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban._

* * * * *

Secure in his animagus form, Sirius trotted through the stone halls of Hogwarts, heading purposefully for the library.  It had been quite a struggle to overcome the temptation to listen at the infirmary door, but morality, honor, right, and what-James-would-do-in-this-case had triumphed.  True, if Harry did not see fit to share whatever it was that Dumbledore said with his godfather, Sirius probably would be completely miserable for days, but such were the risks of being a parent …

Only, of course, he wasn't Harry's sole parental figure any more.  That thought was enough to elicit a happy bark from him, and his sedate stride turned into a series of exuberant, puppy-like bounces.  _James is alive! _  

Sure, there were many difficulties ahead, but fate could not possibly be so cruel as to kill off his best friend and unofficially adopted brother again.  Still filled with a subdued jubilation, Padfoot nosed the heavy door of the library open.  If only he could get Remus to believe too, then everything would be perfect.  Nobody could withstand the combined force of the three Marauders and Harry Potter.  Dumbledore would be _made_ to believe, someone would figure out a way to get those spells off of James, and the world would be well again.

Firmly, Sirius expunged from his mind all thoughts of Voldemort's vengeance, the things Harry and James were obviously hiding, his own failures, the war ahead, and James' tenuous grasp on sanity and idiotic determination to abide by Dumbledore's decisions.  It was like Remus said: if you focus only on the unpleasant aspects of life, you'll end up driving yourself mad.

Of course, that had been when Remus was twelve years old, and he'd been referring specifically to his lycanthropy, but surely the saying still held true.

Inside the library, he found Remus sitting on the floor in the Restricted Section, surrounded by neat stacks of old tomes.  Remus was hunched over a musty volume, scowling in concentration, looking dusty and tired.  He glanced up as Sirius padded around the corner, and concern overspread his thin face.  "Padfoot?  What is it?"

Sirius took a quick look around to verify that the library was empty of unwanted company, then transformed back into himself and dropped down on the floor, casually shoving a few books out of the way.  The stack tottered for a moment, then tumbled over gracelessly.  "The Headmaster wanted to talk to Harry, so he sent me up here to tell you what's going on."

Some of his half-repressed happiness must have come through in his voice, because Remus gave him a sharp, puzzled look, and closed the book.  "What?  Is it … good news?"  Hope tinged his tired voice, and Sirius suddenly broke into a wide grin, thrilled at the thought of the good news he could impart.

"It's James.  It really is.  The Headmaster has agreed that he almost certainly is – hell, even _Snape_ agrees – and –"

Remus interrupted, disbelief warring with hope in his voice.  "Are you sure?  Truly?  What did he say, exactly?  What does Snape have to do with it?  How can he be sure it's James when we haven't even found this spell yet?  What about all those dark spells on him?  What about –"

Sirius waved a dismissive hand.  "You can ask the Headmaster for the details.  Snape brought back news that seems to confirm that the Death Eaters weren't the ones who broke into the cemetery, which means that it has to be James."

"I don't see how that's a logical conclu –"

"Of _course it is!"_

" – because if the Death Eaters suspect Severus, and Albus has hinted that they do, they would give him inaccurate information in hopes that we will become incautious, allowing them to set off whatever traps they've planned –"

Sirius broke in, irritated with the hard, reasonable tone Remus was speaking in.  "Dumbledore's sure – or almost sure.  And _I'm_ sure.  Moony, I _spoke with him –"_

"_What?!"  Remus leapt to his feet in consternation, though the heavy books anchoring down his robe turned the jump into an awkward lurch.  "You did _what_?  I can't believe it, Sirius!  What kind of an irresponsible, _stupid_ thing to do was that?  Albus made us promise not to try to talk with him until we knew it was safe!  You could have been killed, he could have gotten out – anything could have happened!  You broke your promise … I can't believe you did that."  As if exhausted, he dropped back down among the books, staring at Sirius in accusation.  Guiltily, Sirius stared at the floor.  Then Remus's hushed voice broke the uncomfortable silence again.  "What – what did he say?"_

Relieved, Sirius looked up again.  Moony might be an insufferably logical and cautious prat who, despite his uplifting philosophy at twelve years of age, had manged to become a confirmed pessimist in his adulthood, but at least he wanted to hear the truth.  "We didn't talk very long – but it was long enough to convince me.  It's James, without a doubt.  Prongs is back.  I think he's hurting and unhappy and let's say that the past fourteen years haven't been very pleasant for him, but it's still him.  He … well, he acted a bit odd when we got off onto the subject of Lily, but that's understandable.  He asked about Harry, and about _Wormtail_, damn him, and …"  A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he added wonderingly, "and even though I told him what happened, what a fool I was to make him switch Secret Keepers, he still got upset when he heard I'd been in Azkaban.  He was just like himself."

Remus listened, wide-eyed, and Sirius correctly interpreted the expression on his face to mean that good old rule-abiding Moony wished _he had broken his promise and gone down there too.  "Did he say anything about what happened?" he asked eagerly._

"Yes - after a while.  I asked, and he said he didn't really die, but then he wanted to know what … what happened that night."  Sirius coughed to hide the sudden catch in his voice and went on as lightly as he could.  "He didn't want to talk about what happened to him, though he did give a brief account of that night.  He said … oh."  Sirius frowned, chagrined.  "I forgot to tell Dumbledore about this.  I suppose there's no hurry."  He launched into a condensed version of the conversation, and Remus listened avidly, suspicion slowly fading from his face.  Sirius finished with a resentful account of Snape's interruption, then, remembering James's parting words, slowly added, "James … while Dumbledore was dragging me out … wanted me not to come back until we figured out what the problems were.  That's very like him, isn't it?  Annoying over-protective selfless git."

Remus's mouth twitched briefly into a smile.  "Well … yes."  He hesitated, then added, "So … Dumbledore thinks it might be true?  What about those spells, then?"

"I don't know."  Sirius shrugged dismissively.  "The point is that it's _James.  Moony, even the Marauder's Map says it's James!  Don't worry about the bloody spells.  It will all work out.  You'll see."_

The smile faded, and Remus frowned down at the book in his hands.  "I know what the Map said.  We've already realized it isn't an imitation.  However, that isn't the point.  We don't know if it's his … well, his mind.  His 'soul,' if you will."

"Of course it is," Sirius growled, thoroughly incensed by Remus's stubbornness.  "I've talked with him, damn it!  I _know it's him.  Why won't you just believe me?"_

Remus sighed.  "Sirius … I hate to repeat clichés, but doesn't the expression "too good to be true" mean anything to you?  Telling me that you _know it's him just isn't a very persuasive argument."  Remus paused, ignoring Sirius's silent indignation, then looked up, eagerness struggling to break through the shield of caution on his face.  "Did he – did he say anything about me?"_

Sirius cleared his throat, fidgeting, and looked away.  "Well … er … actually, he gave me a message for you.  Would have been longer if we'd had more time.  He said … er … he said to tell you he's sorry – sorry for suspecting you.  He said it was stupid of him to think that, and he was very happy to hear you were well.  He'd thought you were dead for years."

Sirius glanced up awkwardly, then froze in bewilderment to see Remus's face setting in a sort of hurt realization, a deeply betrayed look that Sirius couldn't remember seeing since … well, not since that stupid, stupid, stupid prank he had played in sixth year when he had sent Severus Snape to the Whomping Willow.

The expression vanished as soon as Sirius raised his head, but a dull pain lingered on in Remus's eyes.  "So," Remus said flatly, staring somewhere beyond Sirius's shoulder.  "He did think I was the spy."

Horrified and penitent, Sirius flung himself into a torrent of apologies and excuses.  "I didn't mean that – I – Listen.  It was my fault, Moony – I don't think he ever really believed it, it was just that he's always felt so sorry for that damned Pettigrew – he wouldn't even blame him _now_ – and I'm sure he feels very bad about it – but he only believed it because I said it, and he trusted you, really – and –"

Remus slowly turned his wounded gaze back toward Sirius.  "And why," he asked softly, "did _you think it was me, Sirius?"_

The words lay between them like a gaping chasm.  Since the quick forgiveness in the Shrieking Shack that night over a year ago, the issue had never been mentioned.  Sirius had thought – had hoped – that Remus understood, that he didn't dwell on the issue, that it hadn't hurt him, that it would never be brought up again.  

He had been wrong.

Shame burned in his throat, but he forced himself to keep his gaze steady.  "Because I was an idiot?" he hazarded, pleading bitterly.

"Because I'm a werewolf."

No question – just a statement of fact.  And that it was an accurate statement didn't help matters.  Sirius swallowed hard.  "I … it was … we knew that Voldemort was trying to recruit all the Dark Creatures, and –"

"I see."  Remus looked down, reopened the book on his lap.

"No, listen, that's not all there was to it –" Sirius protested, genuinely distressed.  "Remus –"

"We can talk about it later."  Remus's voice sounded as hard and brittle as ice, and the set of his shoulders really did suggest that he wanted to drop the subject, but Sirius was not about to leave it on such a note.

"It wasn't that we didn't trust you, we thought you might be under the _Imperius or –"_

"I don't want to hear it, Sirius."  Remus rose to his feet again, tucking the volume under his arm.  "If you'll be so good as to excuse me, I must go and show this to Professor Flitwick.  If it really is James, as you say – though I think we both realize that you're not an objective judge – then we need to figure out the spells quickly.  I'm sure Harry needs you."  Without another word, he turned and strode away.

Sirius remained slumped against the bookcase for a long time, staring sightlessly at the piles of tomes around himself.  All his previous euphoria had drained away, leaving a pervasive sense of guilt and depression in its place.  For several minutes, he sat resting his head in his hands.  Then he rose decisively and strode toward the doors of the library, remembering only at the last minute to transform into Padfoot.  He could wallow in guilt about his inane, stupid, clumsy, unkind handling of the situation later.   Remus was right, as usual.  Harry might well need him.  Harry might be feeling very low and miserable, if Dumbledore's grave face had been anything to judge by.  Even if Harry's real father was back to take his rightful place (or would be soon), Sirius still had a duty to be there when his godson wanted him.  

Besides, he could do with a little comforting himself.  It would be nice to be around someone who wasn't making him feel like an absolute rotter … at least, not more of one than usual.

Merlin's beard!  What would it _take to get Remus to believe it was James?_

He slid softly into the infirmary, from which both Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore were blessedly absent, and paced toward Harry's bed.  It was empty.  Padfoot quested toward the infirmary toilet, but quickly emerged from it with a grave face and an unwagging tail.  For a moment, he hesitated on the cold tiles beside Harry's unoccupied cot, then, decisively, ran out the infirmary door and down the hall, heading for the stairs to the dungeons.

* * * * *

Lord Voldemort had moved his headquarters.  Obviously, it would have been quite unsafe to remain in the house to which he had brought the Potters, as one or both of them might be able to find it again.  But he did regret the spacious mansion … the small cottage he currently inhabited was a far cry from the splendor in which Salazar Slytherin's Heir should live.

And the place was infested with cats.  Small cats, large cats, medium-sized cats, and tiny kittens with enormous eyes.  They swarmed everywhere.  In the past twelve hours, he had had to forcibly remove cats from his chair by the fireside five times, and they did not seem to be taking the hint very quickly.  But they would learn.  Two of their number had already died for setting paw on Lord Voldemort's poor substitute for a throne, and the others would soon grow wary of it.  He might have simply killed them all at once and been done with it, but Nagini, once Lucius brought her, would doubtless enjoy chasing them, and he was reluctant to deny his pet a bit of welcome sport.

Besides which, there was something remarkably soothing about kicking a small, furry creature.  

The tabby which had unfortunately crossed Voldemort's path emitted a yowl of pain as his booted foot connected with its small ribcage.  It skidded across the flagged floor of the kitchen, rebounded off a wall, and dived under the stove with a Quidditch Seeker's reflexes.  Voldemort stalked on, his black robes swishing around him.  As he entered the cottage's absurdly small parlor (not nearly magnificent enough for the Dark Lord, though the black-and-silver carpet added a much-needed ambiance), he saw a gray tail vanish quickly behind his chair.  Good.  They were learning already.  A quick spell removed all cat-hairs from the upholstered seat, and he sat down, staring into the fire through slitted eyes.

His new base – absurdly inadequate in spite of the roomy grounds about it and its many convenient, twisting passages – was only a small part of his current irritation.  Only a short while after Lucius had left, he had decided to try out his new spell.  And now it was an effort to keep himself from shattering every window in the cottage in a fit of rage – more at himself than at anyone else.

If only he had been faster!  

Severus had been there.  He had been there, looking uncomfortable and sullen, but not really surprised.  Had he only just found out?  Or had he known all along?  Half an hour earlier … _five minutes earlier, and Voldemort might have found him out, might have found concrete prove either of his innocence or his guilt.  Was he a traitor, or was he not?  That look which old Dumbledore had give him … what could that mean?  Did Dumbledore suspect his Potions Master?  Or were Voldemort's suspicions that dear Severus was a double agent actually correct?  Whatever Lucius might say, Severus was hiding something, and he fairly radiated untrustworthiness.  Nagini, too, had smelt it.  Fear was common enough, but Severus … _

Time would tell.  If he brought back news of that little gathering, it meant that he could still be trusted.

Somewhat.

Other than that frustration, Voldemort felt that his brief look through James's eyes had been a success.  It was highly disorienting, as had been expected, but he had had no difficulty initiating or terminating the contact.  Dumbledore and his pathetic cronies were having no luck removing the spells; that, too, was good.  They seemed to be accepting that James _was_ James – which, hopefully, meant that he would soon be admitted to their secret councils and be informed of their plans.  

Voldemort rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and gazed thoughtfully at his fintertips.  James still seemed quite attached to that inconvenient pup Sirius Black … a violent and rash young man, but one whose reckless plans had an annoying tendency to work.  He had been a thorn in the Dark Lord's side often enough in the glorious days before … October 31st, 1981.  Azkaban seemed to have worked some change on Black, but it was too early yet to say whether the change was good or ill.

Briefly, Voldemort toyed with the idea of having the Ministry informed that Black was hiding at Hogwarts.  But, satisfying as it might be, there were too many objections to it.  For one, the Ministry might have more difficulty shutting their eyes to his return if they could no longer blame his actions on Black, and he was not quite ready for their attention, not yet.

Well.  Enough thought for the moment.  Perhaps another jaunt over to Hogwarts were prove more informative than the last.  Like enough James was sleeping, but who could say?

* * *

He was awake.  Awake, pacing unsteadily, and quite alone.  That was highly disappointing, but one didn't become the terror of the wizarding rule by being impatient.  Voldemort could afford a wait.

When in Hogwarts, he had once been told that patience was always rewarded.  That little axiom did fail occasionally, but this was one of the cases where it proved true.  James had paced back and forth across the room only sixteen times before the door swung open and admitted Harry Potter.

_Perfect, thought the Dark Lord._

James stopped dead in the center of the room, and Harry Potter slipped around the edge of the door, glanced over his shoulder nervously, shut the door, and directed a brilliant smile toward his father.  "Hullo, Dad," he said.

"Harry, what are you doing here?" James demanded, his voice rising in alarm.  "It's dangerous!  You shouldn't be here!"

The boy's smile vanished instantly, and distress filled his face.  "Dad?"

"There are dark spells on me."  James gesticulated wildly, taking a step back.  "They don't know what they are and they can't get them off.  What if Voldemort did something that makes me hurt you?  You've got to stay away until they're sure it's safe!"

_Chivalrous Gryffindor fool.___

Angry color flared in the boy's cheeks.  "That's a lot of rot.  You're not going to hurt me, and – and I jolly well deserve to be able to talk to you!"

James's arms dropped to his side.  "Harry …"  His voice sounded defeated and helpless, and the boy's anger drained away.

"I – I won't stay long, then, but … Headmaster Dumbledore said they're going to put a guard on the door right away, and I may not have another chance for a long time, and … I just … I need to talk to you.  We've hardly had any time … everything's just happened so fast …"

_How touching.  It seems I am to witness a pathetically emotional father-son bonding moment.  I do hope the nausea will not be too strong._

"Er …" Harry went on, now shifting his weight from foot to foot with an embarrassed expression, "can I … er … I mean, I know it sounds silly, but I haven't, er, really touched you yet, you know, and, er, it's just that it doesn't quite seem real yet, you know?  And, so, I meant –"

An instant, later, he had his arms around James's neck and was in turn being subjected to a very tight embrace.

_So much for the vaunted "I'm dangerous; go away" warning._  Gryffindors!__

"I just can hardly believe you're alive," James whispered, his voice rasping as if he was close to tears.  "All this time, I've thought you were dead, that everyone was dead, that I'd failed and that I was all alone …"

"There's me and Professor Lupin and Sirius," Harry said comfortingly.

Miles away, a Dark Lord rolled his eyes in scorn.

"I know."  James pushed Harry back, holding him at arms-length and blinking through a sheen of tears.  "I'm – Merlin!  I'm not usually this weepy, Harry, I swear.  I'm going to blame it on exhaustion and this bloody awful headache I've got.  Are you all right?  Did anything happen after I passed out?  I'm really sorry for that, you know, I didn't mean to leave you alone.  But you got here all right, didn't you?  Your burns were taken care of?"

"I'm fine."  The boy's face suddenly reflected a troubled doubt, and he added slowly, "I was just talking to Dumbledore – he's starting to think you're really you, now, and Sirius is sure that you are, which is really good, and I'm sure he'll be able to convince Professor Lupin, so everything will be all right.  But while I was talking to Dumbledore, he said – well, he knows about the prophecy."

_Patience is always rewarded?  Perhaps it's true after all.  This sounds useful._

"He _knows?" James demanded, sounding rightly incredulous.  "How can he possibly know?"_

"Well … he says it's a real prophecy."  Harry's eyes, behind those ridiculous spectacles, were full of pain.  "He says Professor Trelawney said the same stuff about thirty years ago, and if she said it when that crazy lady in … uh … Bavaria, or wherever, said it, then there's got to be something to it, hasn't there?  I mean, Trelawney did make another real prediction once.  It came true.  It was my fault, too."

_I sense guilt.  I wonder …_

"Harry, I'm sure it wasn't your –"

"Dumbledore says when he figured out that Voldemort knew about the prophecy and was going after people who were descended from Slytherin, like the, uh, the McKinnons and the Prewetts, he did some research himself and found out that the only not-pureblooded descendents left were us, the Potters."

_What in Slytherin's name is this supposed to mean? Does the damn old fool know the truth?_

"What?!" James cried.  "You mean Dumbledore _knows?"_

"No, no, he doesn't.  Not what you think he does.  That was what I thought, but what he knows is something totally different.  I don't understand it, but I think what he meant was that … uh … your, er, mother was descended from Slytherin.  Only he says she wasn't really.  That's the part I don't understand, because he was talking about being at school with my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, or something, and said she, er … well, he said something like her son wasn't actually her husband's son, only Voldemort didn't know that."

_What?_

"What?"  James lifted a hand, rubbing at his forehead.  "Slow down, please, Harry.  I have a frightful headache and, well, you're not making a lot of sense."

"Dumbledore doesn't know about, er, who your mother married," Harry mumbled.  "He thinks she really married a Muggle called Potter, and that's the reason why you're, er, a halfblood.  He thinks that Voldemort thinks that your mother had Slytherin blood, only she didn't really, and Dumbledore knows that because he knows that, er …"

"That my grandfather was a bastard?" James asked dryly.

"Well … yeah."

_Oh, indeed.  I can see that I have some research to do.  Hopefully whoever my dear grandmother-in-law chose to dally with was at least a pureblood.  I suppose I have only myself to blame.  Can one really expect a family like that to hold to their wedding vows?_

"I see.  I think.  So … Dumbledore's got it all wrong."

"Does he?"  The boy looked up, his expression pathetically hopeful.  "You don't think that maybe Voldemort was lying, and Dumbledore's actually got it right, and we're not really at all related to Slytherin?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

_No need to think of it now.  You're too smart to grasp at something you know is a lie, boy._

"I … Harry, I'd like nothing more than to believe that, but … I … I'm not just believing it because he told me.  I think it's true.  We are what we are, and wishful thinking isn't going to do any more to change a bad situation than hexing a Slytherin improves his temperament, as Remus once told me.  Though he was actually referring to his own situation, which is really worse than ours, if you think about it, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Harry said gloomily.

_The poor boy looks quite crushed.  My heart bleeds for him... the foolish brat._

"Harry," James said gravely, "just because we have an ancestor of questionable character doesn't mean that we've inherited some kind of taint.  You are who you are, and knowing more about your family isn't going to change that."  Harry stared up at him uncertainly.  "I'd add 'You're a good person and don't ever doubt that,'" James went on wryly, "but seeing how brief our acquaintance has been, I'm not sure you'd consider it a meaningful remark."

"Well …"  Harry hesitated, gnawing on his lip.

_Déjà vu, as the uncultured say.  I recollect having that habit as a child  'Tis truly a very foolish-looking mannerism … I shall have to break him of that at some point …  "You are who you are," forsooth.  I think my son has lost his ability to make inspirational speeches._

"If that's true," the boy went on slowly, "then … do you think everybody would believe that?"

_Not everyone is as naïve as your father, boy._

"I mean," he hurried on, "couldn't we – do you think – well, I … what do you think they'll all think if we told them about it?  Not the whole world, I just mean our friends … like Sirius.  Sirius wouldn't think any differently about us if he knew, would he?"

_Don't count on it, grandson mine.  You'd be surprised to learn  how judgemental your precious godfather truly is._

James dropped his hands away from the boy's shoulders and stared at the ground.  "I don't know, Harry.  I've wondered that for years, but I just don't know."

"He doesn't think worse of Professor Lupin for being a werewolf," the boy pushed on eagerly.  "This isn't any worse, you said.  It's not our fault what or who we are, is it?"

_Not Pettigrew's fault he was born a coward, is it?  Hasn't stopped Black from hating him for his weakness.  Go on, boy, tell him, and watch him turn against you._

"Of course not," James sighed, "but Sirius … he – he gets so upset over things.  I mean, he used to get so upset over things.  Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if I told him as soon as I found out, but I'm afraid it's too late now."  James crossed slowly to the bed and sat down, rubbing absently at his head.  "He'll be upset I hid it from him.  He'll … I'm afraid he won't trust me – us – as much if he knows.  He accepted Remus for what he was, though … well, it took him a little while, because he … Remus had lied to us all a fair bit, you know, and that is something Sirius has a hard time forgiving, I'm afraid.  He got over it, and he didn't care about the lycanthropy, but … but when the war came, he … well, I can't say that, because I did it too, like a bloody fool, but we both instantly thought Remus must be the spy because of what he was."

"You did?" Harry asked doubtfully, remaining stationary in the center of the room.

"We were young and foolish and upset," James sighed.  "I'm heartily ashamed of myself when I think about it now.  I hope it doesn't bother Remus too much.  But … well … I don't want to hurt Sirius any more, Harry.  Peter has already betrayed us.  How will he feel if he knows it was _my fault that he went through that hell in Azkaban?"_

"How is it _your fault?" Harry demanded._

"Because … because it was me that Voldemort was after.  It was because I told him _no that he went after my friends.  I should never have asked Sirius to be my Secret Keeper.  I didn't have the right to drag him into my mess, my mistakes.  I didn't have the right to drag anyone in.  I should never have married Lily.  I should never have –"_

"Dad!"

_That doesn't sound entirely like guilt speaking.  Did the spell unhinge his mind more than I thought it did?  This may be a problem._

"I'm sorry."

"Well … but … Dumbledore would understand, wouldn't he?  He doesn't have a temper."

"That's true enough, but … we can't trust him to keep it secret either, Harry.  He has the whole school to think of, the whole wizarding world.  He has to do what's best for everyone, and at the moment, I'm not entirely sure that keeping me here is safe or wise."  Harry scowled, but James went on.  "I'm not asking you to keep quiet if you don't want to, Harry, but I … I'm afraid of what might happen if we tell anyone." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, much to the hidden watcher's annoyance.  "Harry … I trust Dumbledore, but he always does what he thinks is best, and sometimes he risks things which he has no right to risk.  People's lives.  I'm afraid of what he might do if he knew."

Harry stared at the floor and said nothing.

James went on after a moment, his voice weary and strained.  "After my mother told me the truth, I – I thought about telling my friends – Sirius, Remus, Peter … and … and Lily.  But it didn't seem to matter, and I didn't see any reason to give them something to worry about.  I didn't think it would ever matter – I thought the knowledge would die with me, and no one would ever be affected by it.  I was wrong.  But now –"  He swallowed convulsively.  "I have so little left, Harry.  I don't want to risk losing anyone."

The boy shuffled his feet.  "I think I know what you mean," he said quietly, and elaborated no further.

James sighed and ran both hands through his hair.  "I don't know what we should do.  I just don't _know.  I can't think clearly about it, not anymore.  I – I just want to __forget it!" he burst out in sudden fury, startling all listeners.  "I don't want them to always look at me – at us – as if they're wondering if we should have been in Slytherin, if we'll join him, if we'll try to __become him, God forbid!"_

"I don't think they'd do that, would they?" Harry asked hesitantly.  

James shook his head.  "I don't know.  I don't believe they would, but … the more people who know, the more likely that the whole world will find out.  I just …  I hate hiding it, but how can I risk _not hiding it?"  He sounded almost as if he were trying to convince himself rather than his son._

Harry shuffled his feet again, looking for all the world as if it were his purpose to wear a hole in the carpet.  "That's what I think, too."

James nodded slowly, then murmured in a suddenly hopeful voice, "Remus … we could probably tell Remus!  He's better at keeping secrets than anyone else I know, and he never judges superficially.  At least, I've never known him to do so."

"I'm not sure whether Professor Lupin believes you're not a trick of Voldemort's," Harry said doubtfully, "but Sirius can bring him around."

"Yes," James whispered, almost as if he hadn't heard Harry, "I think perhaps we can tell Remus."

_So Black isn't the favorite after all.  Interesting.  It is a pity I never could get the werewolf to join me.  He would have been a priceless addition to my army … incredibly talented, that one, but as inflexible as adamant.  Even Black would be easier to sway._

"Maybe not yet," Harry demurred, eyeing his father anxiously.  "I don't know if he really thinks you're _you_ yet."

James blinked.  "Oh.  But I thought you said Dumbledore … why wouldn't Remus believe it?"

"Well, Dumbledore believes it because –"

The door banged open.  Harry leapt into the air like a startled insect and spun around, grabbing for his wand.

_Damn.  Just when it seemed something really important was going to be said._

Sirius Black stood in the doorway, arms folded and expression stern.

_It would be him.  Always blundering onto the scene and foiling my plans through sheer luck.  Someday, jail-crow, your luck will run out, and you will find a Dementor's Kiss waiting for you._

"Oh.  Hullo, Sirius," the boy said weakly.

Black squeezed his eyes shut, looking unutterably weary.  "Harry … don't you ever listen to reason?"

"Not if he takes after me," James interjected.

"Do you want Dumbledore to lock you up?" Black went on irascibly.  "I'm sorry, James, I was up in the library and I didn't know he'd left the infirmary …"

"Why's he in the infirmary?  Is he sick?"

"No, no, it's just a convenient location … er …"  Black fidgeted, looking vaguely uncomfortable.  "Look here, if you want to talk longer, I'll stand outside the door and knock when someone comes, all right?"

"No," James said quickly.  "Dumbledore was right.  It is dangerous.  You should both go."

"I don't want to go!" Harry protested.  "Sirius –"

"Besides, you'll catch your death of cold running around half-dressed like that," James added.  "What is that ridiculous thing you're wearing?"

_I was wondering that myself._

"Infirmary robes," the boy muttered, turning an unusual shade of pink.  

"They've gotten worse since our time," Black explained helpfully, then put out a hand.  "Come on, Harry.  We'd better clear out before someone comes along and gets genuinely angry at us."

"I'm coming," the boy muttered.  "But I'll be back," he added firmly, meeting James's eyes.  "Just as soon as I can.  Because you're _not _going to stay here forever.  They'll figure out how to get those spells off any minute now."

"Thank you," James said softly.  "Take care, and don't do anything rash, Harry.  I'm not sure I could handle it if anything were to happen to you.  That goes for you too, Padfoot," he added sternly over his son's shoulder.  "Don't pull any silly tricks."

"Your accusations wound me," Black informed him.  "When have I ever pulled any silly tricks?"

"Do you want a list, or are you just in the market for derisive laughter?"

The boy looked bewildered yet delighted, glancing back and forth between his father and godfather with an expression suggesting his wildest dreams had somehow come true.

_Throw in his mudblood mother, and his wildest dream  probably would be true.  Enjoy it while you can, brat – and either say something informative or clear out.  There is a limit to how much of this revolting display of affection I can handle._

Thankfully, Black seemed to hear something at that moment, for he started and glanced over his shoulder.  "Someone's coming.  Hurry, Harry, we'd better get out.  Good-bye, Prongs, and try not to let boredom overwhelm you.  I'll see if Dumbledore will send you some books – how's that?"

"That would be wonderful.  But your idea of fascinating reading is _The Beater's Bible, so why don't you let Remus pick the books out?"_

A shadow instantly dropped over Black's face.  

_Been quarreling, have they?  I'll have to remember that._

"I'll see what I can do," Black said shortly, then forced a smile onto his face.  "See you later, James."

"Take care, Dad," the boy added.

"Be careful," James called after them as the door swung shut.  

He slumped forward, pressing his hands against his eyes.  "Damn," he mumbled, his words barely audible in the quiet room.  "Bloody damnation.  You'd think fourteen years in hell would entitle a fellow to a few hours to spend with his son and friends, wouldn't you?"  Abruptly, he laughed, a running, gasping, sobbing chuckle that teetered upon the line between amusement and insanity.  "So much for the famed Marauder ability to spout off apt one-liners for every situation.  If I never see them again, I somehow doubt that _be careful _are going to be very comforting last words," he whispered.  "But is it even safe to tell someone you love them?"

"… Not that it made any difference for Lily … Lily … oh, this _damned _bloody headache!"

* * * * *

Lucius Malfoy stood knocking at the door of the Dark Lord's temporary base, whimsically dubbed "Merlock Cottage" by its illustrious tenant, for almost an hour before Voldemort appeared to grant him entry.  The Dark Lord seemed unusually thoughtful and withdrawn, though he did thank Lucius courteously for bringing the great snake Nagini to him.  More than glad to be rid of her, Lucius almost felt pity for the feline occupants of the cottage who would soon become her prey.

"I seem to remember," Voldemort began as soon as they were settled in the cottage's single, woefully inadequate parlor, "that you and Arthur Weasley have … hmm … something of a rivalry between you."

Lucius flicked a dismissive hand.  "A _rivalry, my Lord?" he drawled.  "Hardly that.  I would scarce condescend to consider that Muggle-loving, povery-stricken fool as a _rival _in anything.  Certainly I dislike the man, and I believe he quite loathes me, but there is nothing resembling competition between us."_

The Dark Lord smiled maliciously.  "Perhaps not.  I believe it was different when you were at Hogwarts, though.  Quidditch, marks, the House Cup … were you not acknowledged rivals for the position of Head Boy?"

Lucius inclined his head coolly.  "We were in the same year, yes, my Lord."

"And Weasley – if I recollect rightly – _was _Head Boy for your year."

"Yes," Lucius answered through gritted teeth.

"A promising boy, was he not?  Pity he threw all his advantages away for his fondness for Muggles … and his ridiculously large family.  Though there was a time when you did not view his throng of children with such scorn … your only son is the same age as his youngest, I believe?"

"Yes," Lucius said again, and forced himself to smile.  "They quite detest each other."

"Natural enough.  'Tis a shame it took you so long to produce an heir, Lucius.  If the boy had already finished Hogwarts, he could be quite useful to me.  Though, as you are unlikely to ever have another son, you might feel some hesitation about endangering him."  Voldemort's thin lips curved into an unfriendly smile.  "I do hope I am mistaken about that sentiment?"

Lucius kept the smile fixed on his face, though he found himself seething inwardly.  "I assure you, my Lord, that if my son were of age, I would be eager for him to serve you in every way possible.  He, of course, feels the same.  Our loyalty to you is complete."

"Excellent."  Settling his elbows comfortably on the arms of his chair, Voldemort laid his fingertips together and regarded Lucius over them with a reptilian gaze all too reminiscent of Nagini's predatory stare.  "I am delighted to hear that, as I will be requiring young Draco's services at Hogwarts once the school commences again."

Hiding a grimace of dismay, Lucius drawled, "Thank you, my Lord.  He will be overjoyed to hear that he can assist the cause.  May I ask –"

"Returning to the subject of the Weasleys," the Dark Lord interrupted smoothly.  "I intend to dispatch a small force to their house … the _Burrow _… to dispel the protection old Dumbledore has placed there, and to pay the redheads a short visit."

Leaning forward slightly in his chair, Lucius frowned.  "You intend to kill the family, my Lord?"

"Oh, no, no, nothing so drastic.  Merely to … _frighten them, shall we say?  I fancy that an Unforgivable or two are in order, but the Killing Curse will not be required at this stage."_

"This is for the Potter boy's benefit, then?" Lucius asked flatly.

"Quite so," Voldemort answered, but his eyes narrowed dangerously at Lucius's tone.  "Why, my dear friend, one would almost think that you disapprove."

"Not at all, my Lord.  Why should I?  As you yourself have observed, there is no love lost between us.  Harming the Weasleys is undoubtedly an excellent means of putting fear into the Potter boy."

"Then you would have no object to going with the force intended for this?"

"None, my Lord.  It would be my pleasure."  

"How gratifying.  But, Lucius, do bear in mind that the consequence shall be dire if you grow too enthusiastic and accidentally _kill _a Weasley … _any _Weasley.  I have other plans for Potter's 'surrogate family.'"

"Of course, my Lord.  I shall be cautious.  Who will be in command of this mission, my Lord?"

He had fully expected to hear his own name; thus it came as a painfully unpleasant shock when Voldemort smiled and said, "Pettigrew."  Before Lucius could give vent to his shocked objections, the Dark Lord went on, "Our little Gryffindor rat is intimately acquainted with the house and grounds of the Weasley clan … and, too, he is easily recognizable.  I have my own reasons for wishing those at Hogwarts to know who is responsible for the attack."

"You know my view of Pettigrew, my Lord," Lucius said through his teeth, gripping the arms of his chair tightly.  How _dare Voldemort put _him,_ Lucius Malfoy, under the command of a cowardly, inept, Gryffindor _traitor_?  It was unbearable – it was a calculated, deliberate insult!  "Is it certain that he is capable of carrying out any operation requiring finesse?"_

Voldemort's wand was suddenly pointing straight at Lucius's pale face, and he froze, aware that he had pushed the Dark Lord too far.  "Are you questioning my judgement, Lucius?" the taller man hissed, his serpentine eyes narrowed menacingly.  "Are you implying that my trust is misplaced?"

Briefly, Lucius wondered whether Voldemort was referring to his trust in Pettigrew – a ludicrous idea – or to his trust in Lucius himself.  The question would bear deliberation later.  Keeping his face a calm mask, he carefully answered, "No, my Lord, not at all.  I should never be so foolish as to criticize you.  It merely pains me that a Gryffindor will be my – my superior in the mission."

"That was not what I heard, Malfoy.  Tread carefully."

"My Lord, I only wish you to be served as well as is possible.  It is only your well-being that concerns me.  Many of us – your faithful followers – have long wondered if Pettigrew's actions that night fourteen years ago were … premeditated.  Of course, if you are convinced that he is a loyal servant, I shall suspect him no longer."  Lucius felt his muscles knotting in tension, as the struggle to maintain a smooth, confident tone grew nearly impossible.  "If I have offended, I humbly crave your pardon."

Thankfully, the Dark Lord lowered his wand, but no friendliness returned to his face.  "Has it not occurred to you, Lucius," he said softly, "that I am best served when my servants do not make the fatal mistake of considering themselves my equals."

_Servants!  Malfoy choked down his dangerous fury, and injected a proper amount of meek fear into his voice.  "My lord, I have never thought –"_

"Of course not, Lucius.  Say no more."  Voldemort smiled again, odiously confident.  "I am certain such a thing will never occur again."

"Indeed not, my lord," Malfoy hastily assured him.  Leaning back, he forced himself to relax.  He did not know what game the Dark Lord was playing here, or how he had caught onto the fact that Lucius disliked being treated like one of Voldemort's other groveling slaves, but he would _not _show the damned man just how shaken he was by that little death threat.  "How soon is the attack on the Weasley's Burrow planned, my lord?"

"I believe that five days before the commencement of Hogwarts would be an admirable time," the Dark Lord murmured thoughtfully.  "That way it will still be fresh in the minds of those concerned when they return to the school, and it will also give Pettigrew ample time to plan the attack and prepare the men.  And it will give _you ample time to scout out the protection wards on the … house … the Weasleys live in.  You will report your findings to Pettigrew – and I do expect you to come up with a quick and sure method of taking those wards down, Lucius."_

"Of course," Lucius murmured, and bared his teeth in a false smile.  "Whatever you wish, my lord." 

_END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN_

* * *

Responses to reviews (rather brief, as I have a Latin test to study for):

Purple People Eater:  Thanks for the tip!  Sorry about that … must have messed up with copy & paste.  I'll fix the reference … someday …

Kitana:  Do I gather that you dislike "manipulative old" Dumbledore?  :)  Thanks for the review!  No Snape in this chapter, sorry, but he will show up again soon.

Jeva: Glad you liked Chapter 13!  Hope that Grandaddy Voldie lived up to your expectations here.

Rowan: Aye, the Marauder's Map would show his name.  But as the Marauders didn't exactly have undead zombies in mind while making it, they're all rather unsure whether it would say "Evil Resurrected Corpse of James Potter" or simply "James Potter" if the James Potter in question _is an evil undead zombie … if you follow me.  Excellent point, though!_

Giesbrecht:  The "Remus Meets James" chapter is indeed scheduled for some point in the future … but not quite yet.  As you can doubtless tell, Remus has … er … "issues."

Electra: Thanks!  Glad you enjoy Sirius & Harry moments.  :^)  Dumbledore won't find out for a while yet – or, at least, that's the current plan.  Always in motion, the future (plot) is.

Neutral:  Thanks so much for your review.  I don't know if I've actually reviewed many of your stories, but I love 'em all.  Your comments meant a lot to me – I'm delighted that you're enjoying NHP.

Dawyne:  The Mirror of Erised shows you what you _want _to see.  Harry, doubtless, could want nothing _less than to see that he is related to Voldemort.  Therefore, (in my opinion, at least), the mirror would not have shown him Voldemort in his family portrait, whether the relationship is true or not._

Jennie:  Thanks!  Glad you found it.  Hope the ridiculously long wait for this chapter hasn't soured you on the story.  

Tarawyn:  I think I see what you mean when you say that Harry is "a bit off."  Have I gotten him too emotional or too sarcastic?  It is difficult to remain true to the characterization of him in the books since … well, pray don't hate me for saying this, but quite frankly there hardly _is any characterization of him in the books.  I realize I'm committing a sacrilege by saying this, but JKR is just not the best writer out there.  Sorry!  Anyway, I am trying my best to write him properly.  Any tips on exactly how I'm doing him wrong would be appreciated.  Thanks so much for the review! _

Ariana Deralte: Certainly, you may have an estimate of how many chapters before someone else finds out about the Potters = Riddles truth.  Surprisingly enough, I'm fairly sure that someone finds out in the very next chapter … or, at least, the one after it.  I don't think it will be anyone whom you expect, though.  Title of Most Creative Reader goes to anyone who guesses it correctly.  :D  Next person probably learns it five or six chapters after that … the plot may change.  (I swear, I _will _start updating more quickly.)

Nicole:  Not going to give away everything, but I can tell you that Dumbledore definitely doesn't know the whole truth.

Lady Ani:  Thanks for the review!  I'm very glad you're enjoying the story.

Chrysta:  Thanks!  Remus will certainly figure out some important things through his research.  As to your interpretation of Dumbledore's words to Harry … hmmm … I think I'll pass on that explanation for the present.  :D  The question is if Dumbledore would really describe himself as a "not particularly admirable young man" …

Sailor Hylia:  Good to hear from you again!  In answer to your remark: "_from the way Harry is in the books, I guess his not telling Dumbledore could be plausible, but... I don't know. I think you're leaning on the "Harry-keeps-his-mouth-shut" crutch just an eensy bit too much" _

There's a certain amount of truth in what you say, but as JKR has always shown Harry as being hesitant to entrust others with his secrets, I don't feel that I'm too far out.  True, one might think he'd have learned by now, but think about it.  Remember Ron's reaction to learning that Professor Lupin was a werewolf?  Maybe Harry's worried that even his best friend seems to be at least somewhat judgemental.  Remember how everyone reacted to the news that Harry was a parselmouth?  Raise that to the power of ten, and you've a glimpse of how they'd react if they learned Harry was actually descended from You-Know-Who.  He has good reason to be afraid of the news reaching the public in general, though his reticence with regard to his known friends is less understandable.  Harry is, however, deeply ashamed of his connection to the Dark Lord, and, as he would rather not even know it himself, he doesn't want anyone whom he cares about to know it either.  He would be too afraid of the mere possibility of losing a friend to risk it.  James's motivation for silence is much the same, though he is also worried about how the truth might impact Harry's future if it were known.  He basically wants it all to be forgotten.

Thanks for the sympathy and the advice!  I agree: writing really is therapeutic.  Unfortunately (from a certain point of view), I find writing original fiction even _more _therapeutic than fan-fiction, so I usually only write on NHP when I'm not in desperate need of de-stressing.  Life has been rather stressful since my last update, but is now settling down again … hence this update!

Lily Lupin:  Poor old Dumbledore … we must be kind to him.  He isn't exactly _wrong;_ he just doesn't know the whole truth.  

JKLB: Thanks!  I'm glad that you think I'm treating James's attitude toward Peter the right way.  No, this actually isn't an AU.  Voldemort's dad _was a Muggle … hence the word _further _in that prophecy – which, remember, may not _really _be a true prophecy, despite everything that Dumbledore has said.  :D_

Merlin's Quill:  Yes, I suppose it is a bit cliché-ish, but … most things are!

All Mighty Terrestrial:  No!  Haven't given up.

JerseyPike:  I think it is more difficult to bring Lily back because her death was (at least partially) responsible for Harry's survival.  In addition, we know more about James, and thus can write him better.  At least, that's my take on the matter.

Dreaming One:  Thank you for the review!  I'm delighted you're enjoying the story.


	15. Summer Nights

_"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said.  "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does.  Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."_

_Hagrid's__ chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

-- Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

*

Disclaimer:  _Hoc non possideo et numquam possidebo._   

A/N:  Ah … ten-month delays in updates are perfectly normal, right?  

I might as well point out that this story is now AU.  Extremely AU.  In fact, I wrote most of this chapter before OoTP even came out.  Once it did, and once I actually got my paws on Book Five … well, I might as well say that I decided there was no earthly or unearthly way I could integrate it into NHP.  Therefore, I will continue writing this as if OoTP didn't even exist.  Just consider it … really, really, really alternate.  

And now for a quick explanation of something that seems to be bewildering people:

James Potter _is Voldemort's son.  Dumbledore's explanation in Chapter Thirteen is merely Dumbledore's conception of reality.  Dumbledore is, in fact, wrong.  Or, at least, he's right in that James's mother wasn't descended from Slytherin, but he's wrong in thinking that was the link.  As for why Harry's scar hasn't been hurting … let's put that down to the fact that Voldemort hasn't been particularly angry recently, shall we?  _

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood.  "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -"_

_"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?"  said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly.  "Yes, I know all about that, Lu­cius. . . . You have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful ser­vice in the future."_

~ Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

_* * * * *_

_It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face:  It had been in Flourish and Blotts' bookshop, and they had had a fight.  Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row._

_"Good lord, Arthur," he said softly.  "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box?  Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"_

_Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Mal­adies and Injuries, Arthur.  He's here as my guest."_

_"How - how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile._

~Arthur Weasley, Lucius Malfoy, and Cornelius Fudge, in_ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * * * *

The few remaining days of summer had slipped by all too quickly for Lucius Malfoy's liking.  The Dark Lord's calls on his time were drastically complicating his schedule; he had been forced to skip various board meetings and had even missed his daily visit to the Ministry several times.  Voldemort's demands that Malfoy produce a new plan for persuading the giants to give up their astonishing reluctance to aid the Dark Lord took up the greatest part of his time, and were the most vexing, as well.  Somehow, Dumbledore must have gotten there first, but Lucius knew better than to suggest that criminal idea.  Yet it had to be so.  The giants had joined so promptly the last time, and now they were evasive in their clumsy fashion, stalling, wavering … not that Lucius himself particularly _wanted _the great foolish brutes on his side, but the Dark Lord had always found them useful.  Now, he blamed Lucius for the continual failure to bring them back.  If the situation got any worse, it would degenerate into curses, possibly even Unforgivables, and a further loss of status.  The Dark Lord's moods had been frighteningly unpredictable since his rebirth.  If it were not for the danger of such treasonous thoughts, Lucius might even consider doubting his sanity.

Some of the lost time might be Lucius's own fault, as he had continued to haunt Ottery St. Catchpole and the Weasley's pathetically run-down residence even after deciding on the best way to deal with the wards.  He had no intention of taking the Rat's word for anything, not even the family's daily habits.  Far better to go into a situation like this well-informed.  The Dark Lord appeared to have gotten the ridiculous idea (probably from the Rat) that Arthur Weasley did not have to be taken seriously, which was absolute nonsense.  The man might be a Muggle-loving fool, and was incompetent enough in private life, but he was also good at his job, and he could be a dangerous enemy, especially if he felt his damned family threatened.  He'd certainly taken control at the Quidditch World Cup quickly enough when everyone else went to pieces.  

On further consideration, it occurred to Lucius that he himself hadn't gone out of his way to convince Voldemort otherwise, but … by the seven hells, what right did he have – Slytherin's Heir or not – to go meddling in and _mocking _a Malfoy's private feud?

On days when he did make it to the Ministry, Lucius found himself either covertly watching or avoiding Weasley (Weasley senior, not his bespectacled, irritatingly industrious son, who worked at all hours, and actually _sought out _extra assignments.  The boy would either die from overwork within five years or rise to become Someone Genuinely Important … provided he made it through the war, which didn't seem likely).  Dear old Arthur was unquestionably involved in Dumbledore's annoying little resistance movement … probably his son as well, thought that was merely a hunch.  Arthur did tend to direct glares of utter loathing in Lucius's direction whenever their paths crossed, but that was nothing new.  Perhaps the glares were a little more potent than usual since the end of the Triwizard Tournament … but perhaps not.  As only a limited amount of emotion that could be fitted into one face, even such a transparent, open face as Arthur Weasley's, it was difficult to tell whether the degree of hatred had increased or not since the whole incident with Riddle's diary two years before.

Riddle's diary.  Now _that had been a debacle of the highest order.  _It was all that stuttering idiot Quirrel's fault_, Lucius thought irrationally.  If Quirrel hadn't gotten himself possessed by the Dark Lord, Lucius wouldn't have realized that the Dark Lord was still around and still trying to come back.  If Lucius hadn't realized that, he wouldn't have … oh, very well, he wouldn't have _panicked _and hastily looked around for something appropriately evil to do, to convince the Dark Lord that, yes, of course, Lucius Malfoy was still the most faithful Death Eater ever.  If he hadn't panicked, he would not have thought of that damn diary, and if he hadn't thought of the diary, he wouldn't have remembered the Dark Lord's instructions to get it to Hogwarts if anything __untoward ever happened to the Dark Lord in one of his immortality experiments.  He'd been quite happy forgetting, thank you kindly.  _He _knew who T. M. Riddle was.  He could remember Riddle, drinking tea at Malfoy Manor and patting a seven-year-old Lucius on the head with infuriating condescension.  He'd been much better-looking back then.  _

If he hadn't remembered, Lucius thought morosely, he could have found something else to do.  Like, say, breaking the Lestranges out of Azkaban, or cutting Fudge's throat (now there was a pleasant thought).  But, no, there was the diary, and the Dark Lord had said it would open the Chamber of Secrets if someone wrote in it.  Lucius had the sneaking suspicion that the Dark Lord had envisioned Lucius himself writing in it, but he'd rather dance naked on the front steps of the Ministry singing the Death Eater Theme Song.  And he wasn't about to give it to his son either.

So perhaps shoving it into the Weasley girl's textbook had not been his most brilliant plan.  She was a Weasley, which automatically meant she was trouble, and she was too close to the Potter boy.  But he'd had the book, and he'd just had that little scuffle with Arthur (a fistfight in a bookstore – the man had no sense of propriety), and the opportunity had just been too good to pass up …  Damn, why the HELL hadn't he thought matters through more carefully?  Just look how it had turned out.  Being dismissed from the Board of Governors was one of his least favorite memories, right up there with that first time the Dark Lord hit him with the _Cruciatuscurse, and the time the Dark Lord was so stupid as to __give the bloody Potter boy his bloody WAND back (why, why, WHY hadn't he just killed the boy and been done with it?), and the time back at Hogwarts when he and Narcissa had been engaging in a spot of harmless, not-completely-clothed kissing in the Prefects' Bath and Filch had decided it would be funny to steal their towels and lock them in … and that stupid, whinging ghost had been staring at him and giggling … and of _course _it had been Arthur Weasley who found them the next morning, gaping at them as if he'd swallowed a bludger and spreading the story to all his snickering friends…  All right, so maybe that wasn't really one of his least favorite memories.  There'd been some good parts, at least before the water went cold._

Arthur Weasley.

He had told the Dark Lord there was no competition between them.  That, he could admit in the safe silence of his own head, was a lie.  Of course they were rivals.  They had been at Hogwarts together, where their competition could not have been more obvious.  They had both worked at the Ministry, where, even though Lucius unquestionably had the edge in intelligence, influence, and persuasive ability, Arthur still occasionally managed to push his own Muggle-loving agenda through.  Their children competed … in a manner of speaking.  Clearly Draco was a more successful student than that brat Ronald … though two of Arthur's other sons had been Head Boys, and another Captain of the Quidditch Team … and, damn it to hell, why couldn't Draco catch the damn snitch?  Arthur had always been full of "Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match last week, Malfoy.  My son – Charlie, my second – caught the Snitch ten minutes into the game.  We're going to win the Cup again.  Ha!  Up _yours, Malfoy!"  _

Well, no, he'd never _exactly said that, but the smug expression on his face always said it for him._

So, fine, there was competition.  And now here he was getting ready to go carry out a spot of Burrow-breaking and Weasley-torture by the Dark Lord's orders, and he was finding a surprising lack of satisfaction in the thought.  For one thing, it rankled that he, Lucius Malfoy, whose bloodline was older and stronger than any other's save perhaps Slytherin's own …

_…and purer than that of Slytherin's Heir, he thought savagely …_

…would be under the command of an idiot Gryffindor, an incompetent traitor.  The Dark Lord had not explained why it was necessary that Pettigrew be recognized and be assumed to be in command, and that rankled too.  Lucius had already determined to keep his own identity secret during the "raid" if at all possible.  In the first place, it would be humiliating for Weasley to see him as a subordinate.  In the second place, when he _did _choose to make his next move against Weasley, Weasley would jolly well know who was responsible and why.  This raid … this was simply interference, an encroachment on Lucius's own personal property.  Damn the Dark Lord and his irritating secret games!  Why couldn't he confine them to his _own_ enemies, instead of invading other people's domains?  The feud with Weasley had been running for over thirty years, and if that didn't give Lucius the sole right to decide when, by whom, and by what means Weasleys should be harmed and harassed, then what could?  If Voldemort had agreed to it when Lucius suggested it, and put Lucius in charge, it would have been different … but _this_ … !  

Hell's fury!  The Dark Lord had been so amiable, so friendly, the first few days.  Now he treated his "old friend" Lucius no better than any other of his sniveling, groveling toadies.  Perhaps he now felt established enough that he no longer _needed Lucius … damn him, he'd certainly gotten enough money out of Lucius's Gringotts account before he turned unpleasant …_

In all truth, there was no question as to _why_.  None of the Death Eaters would ever forget the night of the Master's return: not his words when they first came to him, nor the punishments he had meted out when the Potter brat escaped from them all.

_"Surely, one of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me. . . one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body . . , but I waited in vain. ..."_

_"You ask for forgiveness?  I do not forgive.  I do not forget.  Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you."_

He would not forgive.  He would never forgive.  And Lucius, the most powerful of those who had … yes, who _had_ abandoned him, and willfully, at that, he would forgive least of all.  Oh, but he was full of hatred, that man…

… which brought up another question.  Why in Slytherin's name had he let the Potters go?  He hated the Potter boy so much that he had forbidden anyone save himself to kill the brat at the graveyard in June, consequently losing him altogether.  He had been fairly screaming with rage when the boy got away.  Yet he had had him in his hands, and had let him escape.  Why?  Something had happened to change his mind, something that mattered to him more than the boy's immediate death, and the clues lay hidden in something he had said about James Potter.  If only the elusive idea flitting about in his mind would take a solid form …

_Damn, damn, damn.  Why did he have to come back?  Everything was going so well … and now I must crawl and grovel and kiss the hem of his robe and let him curse me if he's in a foul mood …  World domination just isn't worth the daily humiliation.  _

 "You're late, Malfoy," squeaked Peter Pettigrew.

_And nothing at all is worth this._

Lucius assumed his best expression of cold arrogance.  The Rat had been waiting in the shrubbery beside the road, and had transformed back into a man as soon as Lucius reached it.  Now he stood on the edge of the muddy lane, a scowl disfiguring as much of his face as could be discerned in the darkness.  The moon glinted slightly on his bare, balding head.

"Why, Pettigrew," Lucius said smoothly, casting disdainful eyes up and down the shorter, stouter wizard's form.  "I almost didn't see you there.  Been spending more time as a rat, have you?  I daresay you feel more comfortable that way, hmm?  Must be a welcome change for you, finally being able to feel smarter – if not stronger – than all the other creatures of your own type … finally being able to find a little female companionship … if it's even female companionship that you prefer."

Pettigrew looked torn between casting an Unforgivable on Lucius and cowering away in fear.  He opted for a murderous glare, somewhat ruined by his twitching, frantic eyes.  _By Slytherin_, Lucius thought in disgust, _the Rat is even beginning to look like a rat while in human form_.  "You're late, Malfoy," Pettigrew repeated, a little more strongly.

"I am not late.  I am early.  I said that I would be here by eleven, and, if you observe the stars, you will see that it is not yet that time.  Ah, wait, you failed Astronomy, did you not?  Check your _Muggle__ watch, then."_

Pettigrew blinked spasmodically, and his silver hand clenched and unclenched, only half-hidden by his overly long robe sleeves.  "You were supposed to be here by ten," he hissed furiously.

"That was not what we agreed," Lucius snapped.  

"I'd like to remind you that the Dark Lord put _me _in charge," Pettigrew shrilled, trembling with a mixture of rage and fear.

Lucius turned his interest away from the former Gryffindor, and flicked a bit of dried mud off the sleeve of his robe.  "I'm glad that you can remember _that much, at least," Lucius murmured derisively, "even if you forget how to tell time.  Speaking of which, we are wasting time standing about in this lane.  Will you give the command to begin, or shall we wait until the moon goes behind a cloud, to appease your overly-developed sense of caution?"  As Pettigrew scowled in consternation, Lucius added under his breath, "Or should I say, your under-developed sense of courage?" _

Pettigrew half-raised his silver hand, then seemed to think better of it.  "Get on with it, then," he snarled weakly.  "Take Avery and start getting the wards down." 

"Of course," Lucius answered, not even looking at Pettigrew, and pushed tranquilly by him, heading up the lane toward the dim, misshapen silhouette of the Burrow.  Avery scuttled obediently after him when he gestured, and followed his terse instructions flawlessly.  At least _someone still knew his proper place.  They saved the main ward for last, since Lucius was certain that it would set off at alarm the moment it was down.  Chances were they'd only have a few minutes to wreak havoc before Aurors and, Slytherin forbid, __Dumbledore started popping out of thin air and breaking up the party.  _

"Ready?" he asked, wand poised.

Pettigrew broke in sharply and squeakily.  "Take the ward down on my command – and remember, the Dark Lord says they're not to be killed.  _One!"_

"You sniveling, cowardly, misbegotten Gryffindor traitor," Lucius said pleasantly.

Pettigrew twitched.  "_Two_!"

Lucius trained his eyes on the Burrow's battered front door.

"_Three – NOW!"_

The Death Eaters flicked their wands once; the ward shimmered into visibility and vanished.  The air filled with sharp _pops as the Death Eaters disapparated and reappeared in their designated positions around the Burrow.  Inside the – __house was probably too generous a word – inside the structure, someone was shouting.  Lights came on.  Chickens began squawking somewhere in the yard._

Pettigrew drew back his silver fist and smashed it into the front door, which shattered.  All around, the crash and tinkle of breaking glass heralded the Death Eaters' entry to the Burrow.  Lucius stepped over a pair of mismatched rubbers and strode in at Pettigrew's heels.  

_This is even worse than I thought it would be.  Doesn't Weasley even have a proper parlor?  Is this a KITCHEN?  Good Lord._

There was a clock on the wall opposite him.  Seven of the nine hands were spinning rapidly towards _Mortal Peril_.  Under his mask, Lucius smirked.

"Through there and up the stairs!" Pettigrew shrilled, in spite of the fact that several of the Death Eaters already _were _upstairs.  He pointed at a passage leading off the kitchen.  Even as he did so, a red-headed figure brandishing a wand stumbled into the doorway.  Arthur.  Still wearing a nightcap.  Of course.  Arthur's first _Stupefy! would have caught Pettigrew squarely in the chest if the Rat hadn't deflected it with his silver hand.  Malfoy took advantage of Weasley's momentary consternation to toss a Body-Binding Hex back at him, but unfortunately Weasley wasn't quite disoriented enough to fall for that.  He dodged.  _

Warned by some sixth sense (or maybe by the faint _pop_) Malfoy spun around.  Another Weasley – the bespectacled Ministry arse-kisser – had just appeared behind him.  His stunning hex (how unoriginal Weasleys were) was easily diverted.  

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The brat blocked it and retorted with a blasting hex, which Malfoy contemptuously redirected into a cabinet full of cheap china.  Then Macnair clattered into the kitchen behind the brat and clubbed him over the head with a poker.

That was Macnair all over – crude but effective.

Upstairs, someone screamed.  The elder Weasley, momentarily distracted from his duel with Pettigrew, fell prey to Malfoy's second _Petrificus__ Totalus, and Malfoy hurried past him for the stairs, gleefully kicking him the stomach as he passed.  Sure, Weasley couldn't actually feel it at the moment, but it was the thought that counted._

The stairs were staggeringly crooked and implausible.  Malfoy spared a moment to wonder who the architect of the place had been (probably another Weasley) and whether his sense of design would have been improved by an application of the Killing Curse.  Probably so.__

Crabbe's heavy form came lumbering down the stairs, clutching an unconscious Weasley brat by hair and collar.  Lucius had to squeeze up against the wall on the narrow landing to avoid being crushed.  The indignity was painful.  To relieve his feelings, he blasted in the next door with a satisfying shower of dust and splinters, and stormed in like a demon out of hell.  

The room was completely empty, even after he set fire to the bed, so the effect was spoiled.

He had better luck on the next landing; Molly Weasley was fighting like a tigress in the doorway, half shielded by an overturned wardrobe, holding off Avery and two others.  She'd been a genuinely good dueler before she had seven children and put on about two hundred pounds – and it seemed she was _still a genuinely good dueler.  Damn.  He clattered on up to the next level, and found Nott unconscious on the floor, and Goyle wandering in a circle, dazed and coughing.  His face was blistered as if an entire pack of Exploding Snap cards had gone off while he was passionately kissing it.  On the plus side, there was a Weasley limp and bleeding next to Nott.  He dragged the boy back down the stairs._

Voice-disguising charm.  Shoulder Avery out of the way.  Duck slug-vomiting hex.  Shove Weasley brat into view, emphasizing fact that said brat had wand digging into his vulnerable neck.

"Molly!  Throw down your wand unless you want to hear your precious little whelp serenading you with the opening verses from _Songs of Extreme Pain_!"

"Malfoy?" she roared.

Damn.  Even though he'd disguised his voice and everything.

"Now, Molly," he hissed, and let a few sparks jump from his wand, just for the fun of it.

The brat jerked, came awake, and drove an elbow violently into his stomach.

Clearly there was only one thing to do.  He dropped the boy and jumped back out of Molly's line of fire.  Then he leveled his wand at the boy.  "_Crucio!"_

Molly screamed even louder than the brat.  Her "_Incendio__!" hit the wall only inches from his face, and the flames licked greedily out toward his robes.  He was forced to break his curse on the boy to extinguish the fire.  Avery, showing an unusual glimmering of intelligence, bobbed up from his protective crouch and stupefied Molly.  It was, however, only a _glimmering _of intelligence, for he stood still to gloat, and yet _another _of Arthur's loathsome offspring managed to disarm him.  His flight backward would have been more impressive if the wall had been further away, but he still managed a respectable crash, and fell down on top of the weakly convulsing boy.  _

Lucius levitated the wardrobe, revealing two crouching, red-headed Weasley spawn.  Both of them scrambled to get out of sight, but their distraction cost them.  Another of the Death Eaters proved that Weasleys weren't the only ones who could use disarming curses.  The brats' wands flew into his hand; the brats flew into the wall.  Lucius sent the wardrobe smashing into a bookshelf, then stunned the children.

As far as he could tell, Pettigrew hadn't done a damn thing during the whole battle.

The Rat still did a sickeningly impressive job of being In Charge when the captured Weasleys and the Death Eaters congregated in the kitchen – less Avery, who had apparated away to deal with his cracked head as soon as they revived him, and Goyle, whom they had had to portkey home (what had he done, buried his face in a basket of Dung Bombs right before they went off?).  They bound and revived the Weasleys, indulging in a spot of kicking, then let Pettigrew have his say.  

"Now you see what comes of opposing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" the Rat squeaked, his face perspiring in the dim light.  He had taken off his mask.  "Now you will pay for aiding and abetting his enemies!"

One of the brats was struggling against his bonds.  "You filthy traitor!" he shouted.  "You betrayed Harry's parents, you – you rat!  _Scabbers!  You're going to die!  We should have killed you in the Shack, you filthy, evil, mangy, traitorous rat!  You don't deserve to be alive!"_

_Not the most creative insults, though 'mangy' is good.  And 'Scabbers'?  I will have to find out about that._

Pettigrew's face went an unattractive shade of scarlet.  He pointed his silver hand at the boy, who jerked like a fish on a hook, doubled up, and started retching helplessly.  Molly Weasley's shrill voice broke into vituperations, far more creative than her son's.  Macnair gave her a heavy-handed slap, only to be sent crashing to the ground as Arthur Weasley twisted around, impressively agile for a middle-aged man tied hand-and-foot on the floor, and knocked his feet out from under him.  

"You won't get away with this," he rasped, glaring at Pettigrew.  "Dumbledore –"

"_Crucio_!" Pettigrew shrilled.  

Malfoy checked the time.  He estimated that they had about three minutes before the Aurors started arriving.  Gesturing to Crabbe and the others to follow his lead, he started in with a series of minor but painful hexes on the sundry red-headed nuisances, ignoring Arthur Weasley's gallant efforts not to scream.  Well.  Perhaps they weren't all that gallant.  Pettigrew's Unforgivables were rather lamentable, really.

He had just hexed away Molly's mouth (an act which he derived an absurd amount of glee from) when Nott bolted into the room babbling about Aurors.  Pettigrew shrilled the call for retreat, and even Macnair took the hint and vanished instantly.

Malfoy paused, waiting for the Rat.  Pettigrew, sweating like a pig in autumn, pointed his wand at the ceiling.  "_Incendio_!" he shouted.  Flames, a fiery inferno.  Pettigrew vanished.

The idiot.  Was this his idea of an impressive parting blow?  For an instant, Malfoy was tempted to leave things the way they were – chances were ten to one that the Aurors would be too late to save the immobilized Weasleys from a nasty, fiery death, and Pettigrew would be the one blamed if the Dark Lord's _don't kill _requirement failed …

He put out the flames, and disapparated.

* * * * *

Severus Snape knew, the moment he apparated into the front yard of Voldemort's ridiculous new meeting place – a little cottage with ivy growing around the front door?  What could be less awe-inspiring? – that this would not be a pleasant meeting.  He stalked up the neatly trimmed path to the neatly-painted front door, crunching a few early fallen leaves underfoot, and could almost _feel _the oppressive weight of impending evil pressing down on him.  Two underfed cats darted out of the door as soon as he opened it, racing for the front gate.  He spared a moment to envy them both their good sense and their freedom of movement, then slipped inside and closed the door.  Quietly.  

The outside of the cottage might look like a place where Albus Dumbledore would spend his summer holidays, but the inside was sufficiently grim and foreboding.  An absence of natural light, a black carpet, and a dead, half-eaten cat in every corner did wonders for interior atmosphere.

Snape straightened his shoulders, twitched his robes into order, and stalked toward the parlor with his cloak flaring behind him.  He looked, he knew, like a furious bat straight out of hell.  Pure Death Eater.  Completely loyal to the Dark Lord.  Mudbloods?  Less than dung beetles.  He arranged a sneer on his face, and rapped briskly on the door.

The chill, rasping voice that bade him enter did nothing for his waning hope for a short, pleasant meeting.  Couldn't they ever have tea and crumpets instead of veritaserum and hexes?  Damnit, what would he have to do before the Dark Lord would trust him again, deliver Albus's head on a silver platter?

…  That would probably do it, actually.

He crossed the carpet swiftly, and dropped to his knees, eyes trained on a pair of polished boots.  "Master," he murmured, and bent to kiss the closer of the boots.

He hadn't really expected Voldemort to kick him in the head, but at least it made for a refreshing change.  Of course, the Dark Lord followed it up with a short but undeniably painful application of the _cruciatuscurse, so perhaps it wasn't so much _refreshing_ as … say … _humiliating_.  Unsteadily, he pressed one of his sleeves to his bleeding nose and sat back up.  Far too close for comfort, the Dark Lord's snake raised her head and hissed at him.  He spared her a nasty glare.  She didn't have to sound quite so amused about it._

"Ah, Sssseverus."  He hated the way the Dark Lord said his name, that possessive, purring hiss, rich with amusement and knowledge.  And with threats.  

"Master," he mumbled, blinking away dark spots.  Damn the world to hell.  He had had a raging headache already.  He didn't need this too.  "I … I apologize humbly if I have offended you, if I have failed you –"

There was no-one else in the room.  It was him, and the Dark Lord, and that huge bloody snake.  In a way, that was reassuring.  If the Dark Lord knew he was the traitor, he would certainly make a very public example of him.

On the other hand, the others could simply be waiting in the next room.  

"_Have you failed me, Severus?"_

Snape took his hand away from his nose and let it bleed unhindered.  Better to have blood dripping off his chin than to make the Dark Lord think he was trying to hide a guilty expression.  "My lord, I –"

"Think carefully, Severus.  You have but one chance to answer this."

Best to aim for injured, indignant anxiety.  "My Lord, if I had _known _that James Potter had somehow returned from the grave, I assure you, I _swear to you, I would have told you."  Maybe shifting the blame somewhere else would help.  "When Pettigrew told me –"_

"Pettigrew told you."

"Yes, Master."  

Silence.  Maybe this wasn't about the Potter.

_Ha!  When is anything EVER not about Potter?  One bloody Potter or another._

"If I had been aware that you meant to have the Weasleys attacked, Master," he said, faintly aggrieved, "I could have taken measures to disable Dumbledore's alarms.  As it was, the Aurors were warned and summoned, and the Weasleys are all alive and now at Hogwarts or at St. Mungo's.  When the term begins –"

"The Weasleys are not your concern, Professor.  Tell me about James Potter."

"I know very little, my Lord – Dumbledore knows that Potter and I hate each other."  _At least that is the truth.  "He would scarcely tell me anything.  He was hiding Potter – I had to search him out myself."  He felt the barest flicker of guilt.  Perhaps Voldemort had not known that Potter was at Hogwarts … bah.  Everyone ended up at Hogwarts.  If the Dark Lord was not told now, he would find out from some other source soon enough._

For what seemed like hours, but probably was scarce twenty minutes, the Dark Lord grilled Snape on every detail of James Potter's appearance, of Black and Lupin's presence at Hogwarts, of Dumbledore's slightest look and word.  He told the truth where he could, pled ignorance where he could not, and fabricated hints of disharmony everywhere else.  By the time the Dark Lord sat back in his chair and stopped asking questions, the collar of Snape's robe was soaked with blood from his nose and his split lip, and he could feel sweat trickling down his face as well.  

_If Malfoy sees me looking like this, I will never hear the end of it._

He made a move to get to his knees, and the world spun dizzily around him.  "If that is all, my Lord," he croaked, "the old fool Dumbledore might expect me –"

"Did I give you leave to rise?" the Dark Lord asked, soft and lethal.  Snape sank back down.  "Restrain your impatience, Severus.  There is an old friend of yours here tonight.  It would be _most _rude of you to depart without saying farewell to him."

Unease stirred in Snape's gut.  "An old friend of mine, my Lord?"

Voldemort's thin lips parted in one of his humorless smiles, revealing those sharp, inhuman teeth.  Snape would not have been surprised to see a forked tongue flicker between them.  The Dark Lord raised a hand and snapped his long, white fingers.  One of the doors opened, and Pettigrew scrambled in.  Snape gave him one of the looks he usually reserved for Neville Longbottom, and was maliciously pleased to see the Gryffindor quail.  Then he saw Crabbe and Goyle enter behind Pettigrew, saw the man they were dragging between them, and his heart fell in dismay.

"You remember our dear friend Igor, don't you, Severus?" purred the Dark Lord.  

"Yes, Master," Snape whispered.  More Death Eaters were filing into the room, lining up in a semi-circle behind the Dark Lord's armchair.  Crabbe and Goyle dumped Karkaroff – bound in tight black cords, but very much conscious and clearly half-mad with fear – onto the floor between Snape and Nagini.  Snape stared at Karkaroff for a moment, then remembered to sneer.  

They had been friends, once.  But he did not have a choice anymore.

"You caught him, then," he said, and heard his own voice full of smooth malice.  "You did not run fast enough, Igor.  You would have done better to stay."

The Dark Lord was twirling his wand between his fingers, a sure sign that he was thinking about doing something of a particularly disagreeable kind.  "He certainly would have done better to stay.  But Igor forgot to be loyal.  He should have followed your example, Severus."

"Now there is a sentence I hear but rarely," Snape drawled.

"Go on, then."  The Dark Lord gestured toward Karkaroff.  "Set us all an example, Severus.  What kind of treatment do you think a traitor deserves?"

_Forgive me, Albus._

Snape rose to his feet, staggering only slightly, and wiped some of the blood off his mouth.  He met the man's wide, bleary eyes, and did not even blink at the terror in them.  "You should never have abandoned your Master, Karkaroff," he spat.  With a steady hand, he withdrew his wand and pointed it at his erstwhile friend.  His voice, when he spoke, was as cold and inflexible as the winter sky.  "_Avada__ Kedavra."_

* * * * *

"Severus," said Lucius Malfoy, amusement rippling over his usual drawl, "that is Ogden's Firewhiskey, you know.  If you continue to gulp it down like a Muggle stranded in the desert, you will be too drunk to floo back to Hogsmeade, let alone apparate."

Snape, who looked as greasy, undernourished, and ill-tempered as always, with the added novelty of dried blood all over his face, set the goblet down with more force than necessary.  He glared at Lucius.  "I have a potion brewing in my quarters.  An experimental potion with exceedingly expensive ingredients.  Is this meeting going to last all night?"

Technically, Snape probably could leave at any time.  The Dark Lord was merely giving instructions to a few of his plants in the Ministry.  However, he had told Lucius to wait for him, and Lucius had no intention of waiting by himself.  "Are you short on money, Severus?" he inquired solicitiously.  "You know I would be more than happy to lend you anything you may need."

Snape glared at him and took another gulp of the whiskey.  Malfoy knew from experience that Snape had an even better head for alcohol than he did himself, but, good Lord, the man was swigging it down as if it were butterbeer.  Had killing Karkaroff bothered him that much?  Or perhaps it was the Potter affair.  Everyone even remotely connected with Slytherin knew all the details of Severus Snape's feud with James Potter, Sirius Black, and their sundry hangers-on.  No, Snape would not be happy that Potter was alive again.

"I neither need nor want your charity, Malfoy," Snape said coldly.

Lucius raised his own goblet, admiring the way the firelight flickered off the cut glass.  "I said nothing about charity, Severus.  There is no need to behave like a third-year … Weasley."

"A Weasley."  Snape took another swallow.  "If I were not half-drunk," he growled, "I might have to curse you for that insult."

"Please.  You know you cannot take me in a fair duel."

"Slytherins don't play fair.  And I _have _taken you before."

Lucius sniffed disdainfully.  "After feeding me one of your damn experimental potions.  I could barely see straight, let alone dodge your curses."

"That time in Paris –"

"I let you win," Malfoy said hastily, and took a sip of his own whiskey.  "You ought to put something on that cut, by the way.  Term starts in two days, and your students are going to wonder who has been smashing your face in.  You don't want them to think you can't hold your own in a fistfight, do you?"

"I hardly think the Dark Lord would have approved if I had tried to _hold my own," Snape muttered, but he pulled out his wand and gingerly cast a healing charm on his split lip._

"Did he hit you?" Lucius inquired, deeply interested.  "I would not have expected –"

"He probably could not resist the temptation," Snape said.  "If someone were attempting to kiss my shoes, I would find the urge to kick them irresistible."  He swirled the small amount of liquid remaining in his goblet, staring down at it with his usual _God-but-life-is-bitter expression.  "There is something about groveling, servile sycophants that brings out the worst in all of us."_

"Cheer up, Snape.  Not everyone can say that they have been personally kicked in the nose by the Dark Lord."

"Thank you, Lucius.  That silver lining had not occurred to me.  You are right, of course.  It will be an _excellent tale to tell at tea parties.  Or during dinner at Hogwarts.  I am sure Minerva McGonagall will find it fascinating beyond words."_

"Have some more whiskey," Lucius suggested.  "Then tell me about Potter."

Snape's face changed from _snarkily__ sarcastic to _utterly expressionless _without going through anything resembling a transformation.  "I do not want to talk about Potter," he said flatly.  "_Any _Potter."_

_Damn.  He's not drunk enough yet._

"Black?" Lucius suggested hopefully.

Snape scowled.  "The day that I see Sirius Black dead will be the day that I finally acquire a memory happy enough to conjure a Patronus."

"Told him that recently, have you?"

"No."  Snape refilled his goblet with an abrupt hand.  "I have caught only the barest glimpse of him in the past weeks.  The old fool has some of the same protections on him as on the Weasleys."  He paused.  "Speaking of Weasleys – were you there?"

"Severus, Severus, Severus.  We don't ask that kind of question.  Supposing the Ministry captured you and put you under veritaserum?  You wouldn't want to incriminate me, would you?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.  "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Lucius smirked.  "I suppose there's little danger of that happening.  Fudge will not notice the Dark Lord has returned until the _Daily Prophet_ reports that the Ministry has been exterminated."

"They will notice once they are dead," Snape agreed.

Lucius leaned across the table and topped off Snape's glass.  "Going back to the Weasleys …"

"I am surprised they still live."  Snape ran a finger around the edge of his goblet, produce a faint, high musical chime.  "But perhaps those who have _not had to suffer through fourteen years of teaching obnoxious, freckled, trouble-making Gryffindor brats do not share my dislike for anything red-haired that answers to the name Weasley."_

"Hmm," said Lucius.  He could hear voices – Macnair's, among others – in the next room.  They seemed to be bidding the Dark Lord an obsequious farewell.  "The Dark Lord did not wish the Weasleys killed.  Merely … frightened."  He smirked again.  "Tell me, were we successful?"

"St. Mungo's rang from end to end with the hysterics of Arthur's woman," Snape said dryly.  "I hear her children are suffering from dehibilitating nightmares.  Hopefully they will ask me to make up the Dreamless Sleep potion which they will doubtless require."

"Good Lord, yes."  Malfoy chuckled.  "I remember – you came up with a way to make it taste slightly worse than dirt from a gnome-infested garden."

"That was the nice version," Snape said.

The door opened, and both men leapt to their feet.  The Dark Lord, tall and terribly thin despite his voluminous black robes, looked at them both through his unreadable red eyes.  Malfoy suppressed a shudder when they turned on him.  "You may go, Snape," he said.

Snape bowed so low that his hair nearly touched the carpet.  He swayed a bit as he straightened, clutching at his head, then swept out of the room with his usual impressively snapping robes.  He took the rest of the bottle of whiskey with him.

_Sly bastard._

"Lucius."  

"My lord?"  He tried an ingratiating smile.  With any kind of luck, the Dark Lord would be in a better mood now that he had dealt with Karkaroff.

"Fetch your son," said the Dark Lord.  Lucius stared for a moment, sure that he must have misunderstood.  Draco?  What could the Dark Lord possibly want with Draco?  The boy was only fifteen, and not the most competent fifteen-year-old, either.  Surely he could be of no use whatsoever.  Impatience flared in the Dark Lord's white face.  "Your son, Lucius.  Fetch him here.  At once."

He bowed wordlessly, and rushed out of the room.  Snape was gone already; the front yard beyond the anti-apparition wards was dark and empty.  

The Manor's front gardens were empty as well when he appeared in them, but there was a single light burning in an upper window.  Lucius hurried up the path, his head spinning.  He remembered, now, that the Dark Lord had mentioned something about having a task for Draco at Hogwarts.  That had to be what this was about.  His mind flinched away from the other, darker possibilities that flickered in and out of his mind.  

Draco jumped like a frightened Muggle when Lucius threw the door of his room open, and made a reflexive attempt to hide the book in his hands.  Why he thought he needed to hide his Charms textbook, Lucius could not imagine … unless he wanted to disguise the fact that he still had not finished his homework two days before the start of the term … 

"Put your robes on," Lucius snapped, "and comb your hair.  Is that shirt clean?"

He did not offer an explanation until Draco was relatively presentable, hurrying after him in a state of obvious agitation.  "The Dark Lord wishes to me to bring you to him," Lucius said over his shoulder as he strode through the hallway.  "Be on your best behavior.  Be _respectful.  And for your own sake, _don't _speak unless you're spoken to.  The Dark Lord will not put up with impertinent questions."_

He thought Draco looked unnaturally pale, but perhaps that was just the dim lighting in the hallway.  "Yes, Father."  Silence, as they went down the stairs.  "Do you know what he wants –"

"Were you even listening, Draco?" Lucius hissed.  "Does the phrase _impertinent questions__ bring anything to mind?"  Draco mumbled an apology.  He looked nervous._

_Damnation._

Lucius paused in the garden and put a hand on his son's shoulder.  He noticed that the boy was taller than he had been at the start of the summer.  "Listen.  The Dark Lord is … his appearance is … it can be startling.  Do not stare, gape, gasp, or do anything else that might be considered rude."  Draco nodded, wide-eyed.  "Call him _my Lord_.  Bow.  If I motion for you to do so," he added, the words sticking reluctantly in his throat, "you had better kneel and kiss the hem of his robes."

Draco's jaw fell.  Lucuis put a finger under Draco's chin and closed his mouth.  He narrowed his eyes in his most intimidating cold glare.  "_Do you understand me_?"

"Yes," Draco whispered.

He took his son's hand, and apparated them both back to the Dark Lord's cottage.  

_Ergh__.__  Severus is right – this simply is not intimidating enough.  Perhaps we can find an empty castle somewhere …_

"Shut your mouth, Draco," he snapped.  The younger Malfoy obeyed, but continued to stare around the garden of climbing ivy and wild roses with a bewildered expression.  Lucius herded him into the house.  At the parlor door, he paused to twitch his son's robes into order and charm his hair to stay in place. 

The Dark Lord was back in his armchair when they entered.  Lucius bowed, aware that Draco was hastily doing the same behind him.  "This is my son, my Lord," he murmured.  

"So I see."  The Dark Lord crooked a finger.  "Come here, boy."  It was not so very different from the way he would call a dog … or, at least, the way he would call Pettigrew, which was probably the closest comparison.  Lucius threw Draco a warning look.  It seemed sufficient, for Draco paced forward without any noticeable sign of discomfort.  He was paler than usual, but it was dim.  No-one would notice.  And, most importantly, he was not gaping at the Dark Lord's face.

He hesitated when he reached the chair, then awkwardly went down on one knee.  He was very tense, Lucius realized.  He was probably terrified out of his wits.

Good.  It would keep him from being cheeky.

"You go to Hogwarts with Harry Potter," the Dark Lord purred.

Draco nodded.  Then, seeming to sense Lucius's glare on the back of his head, he gulped and stammered, "Yes – yes, my Lord."

"I hear that you do not much _like _Harry Potter."

A little more confidence came into Draco's voice.  "I hate him.  He's a smug git.  My lord."

"Indeed."  Red eyes stared into gray, but only for a minute.  Draco shivered, and dropped his head.  The Dark Lord reached inside his robe and produced two folded parchments.  Even from across the room, Lucius could see that they were sealed.  The Dark Lord held them out.

When Draco did not move, he snapped, "Take them, boy!"  

Draco jumped, and hastily put out his hands.  He winced visibly when the Dark Lord's long fingers touched his.  Lucius braced himself in expectation, but nothing happened.  Perhaps _he _had not noticed.

"You will deliver these two letters to Harry Potter as soon as you return to Hogwarts," the Dark Lord's soft, cold voice commanded.  "From your hands into his hands.  No owls, no intermediaries.  Let no-one see you deliver them.  Do you understand?"

Draco jerked his head in a nod.  "Yes, my Lord.  I – I understand.  My Lord."

"Good."  Draco started to rise; Voldemort's hand shot out and caught his chin.  Lucius took a step forward.  "Two other things," the Dark Lord whispered.  "Unless I give the word, you are not to curse, assault, or otherwise antagonize Harry Potter.  Until I give the word, you are to report back to me on everything that Harry Potter does, on everything that happens in Hogwarts.  If you disobey me or deceive me, you will be punished."

Draco looked on the brink of panic.  Clearly, the time had come for intervention.  "I assure you that he will not fail you, my Lord," Lucius said smoothly.  The Dark Lord turned toward him, releasing Draco, who bolted to his feet and backed up far too rapidly for good manners.  "He may look like a fool," Lucius went on, giving Draco a warning glare, "but he is trustworthy."

"Of course."  The Dark Lord gave one of his flat, unamused smiles.  "You may depart.  Both of you."

Clutching the letters to his chest with both hands, Draco left the parlor with a speed that would have netted Slytherin the Quidditch Cup every year if he could just have shown it on the pitch.  Lucius took the time to bow deeply, murmured a farewell, and close the door quietly behind him before following his son to the garden.  Silently, he apparated them both back to the Malfoy grounds.  

Draco was already examining the letters curiously as they entered the Manor.  Lucius stopped him under the entryway light.  "Hold them up," he ordered.  "Let me see."

Draco obeyed hesitantly.  "I don't think he meant for anyone else to touch them –"

"Did I say I was going to touch them?"  Lucius examined the seals – black wax, marked with a simple curving snake – and the fronts of the letters – completely blank, and learned that the parchment was too thick to read through.  He was agonizingly curious, but not to the point of attempting to open the Dark Lord's private correspondence.  "Very well," he said shortly, and Draco tucked the letters away inside his robe.  "You … did not do as poorly as you might have," he said.  "Good night."

He watched as his son wandered toward the stairs and began to mount them.  "Draco," he said suddenly.  His son's pale, pointed face turned back toward him.  Lucius raised a hand, dropped it again.  "I do not know what game the Dark Lord is playing," he said harshly.  "Be careful."

Draco's eyes widened a little.  "Yes, Father," he said.  "Good night."  He vanished up the staircase.  Lucius stood in the pool of lantern light for a long minute, looking at his own shadow, then made his way slowly to his study.  

* * * * *

Heavy black seals and thick, smooth, unmarked parchment.  

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, turning the two letters over and over in his hands.  What did it mean?  Why was the Dark Lord sending Harry Potter mail?  Were they cursed to kill him as soon as he opened them?  Didn't Dumbledore have some sort of ward up to prevent things like that?  Would he find them as soon as Draco set foot on Hogwarts grounds?  Was he going to end up in Azkaban over this?

_He didn't even look human._

Why two letters, if they were both for Potter?  What in Slytherin's name could they _possibly be about?  Really, what could the Dark Lord have to say to Harry stinking Potter, the Prat Who Lived Altogether Too Long?  "You're going to die slowly and painfully," and a maniacal laugh?  How would you spell a maniacal laugh?_

_His hand was as cold as ice._

Would Potter even be willing to take the letters from him?  Quite frankly, if Potter were to come up to him and offer him a letter, he'd just hex Potter and incinerate the letter.  Well, maybe not.  But Potter was a good, noble, righteous Gryffindor, so he probably wouldn't offer anyone a piece of murderous mail.  Whereas Draco was a Slytherin, and therefore everything he did was suspect.

_Father was scared.  Father was really, genuinely scared._

He pulled the candle closer, and ran a finger over the seal.  There were spells on the parchment, he was sure of it, but this one felt a little different than the other letter.  He did not get as strong a stinging sensation in his fingertips when he touched the seal.  What would happen if he tried to open it?  Would it go up in flames?  Would _he _go up in flames?

_He looked at me as if I were a disobedient House Elf._

What if he used a copying spell on it?  No … surely the Dark Lord would have done something to prevent that.  Draco got up and padded across to his desk, where he had left his Father's _Illegal Charms for the Illegally Inclined, safely disguised as his Charms Textbook.  It certainly was nice that Father had put up wards so Draco could practice magic in his bedroom without alerting those stupid idiots at the Ministry.  Restriction of Underage Magic, indeed.  That sort of thing was fine for Mudbloods and Weasleys, but a Malfoy could hardly be expected to live like a stinking Muggle for the summer just because he hadn't turned eighteen yet._

_Does Father really have to grovel to him?  Does Father have to call him 'Master'?_

Probably the Dark Lord did not know that he could use magic over the summer.  Maybe the letters were not too dangerously bespelled – maybe he didn't expect Draco to be able to open them, and doubtless the main charm on them was something to prevent other people from touching them.  He flipped through the pages of the book, hunting for the chapter he had seen on correspondence – safeguarding your own, and getting into other peoples'.  He _had to know what was in the letter._

_That wasn't how I thought it would be.  I thought … I thought I would admire him.  I didn't think I'd be so scared of him that I nearly puked.  Merlin.  I was so scared.  I could FEEL the darkness rolling off him._

He sat up late into the night, hunched over the book.  Sometime between three and four in the morning, he crept down the stairs and into his father's study, where he hastily copied the relevant portions of a larger and darker text.  By the time a House Elf came to summon him for breakfast, he had determined that there _were spells that could prevent people from touching someone else's letter, spells which clearly didn't apply to him.  On the other hand, there were dozens of spells that did very nasty things indeed to those who tried to open other peoples' mail … not least of which were the ones that alerted the sender to what had happened.  Dracoo briefly imagined the Dark Lord storming into his bedroom to take him to task for reading Potter's letter, then pushed the image away, shuddering._

_Why didn't he tell us what's going on?  Doesn't he trust us?  I thought Father was his second-in-command_

Not until the night before September 1st did he find the spell he wanted.  Then, shivering with a mixture of terror and anticipation, he locked his bedroom door, sat on his packed trunk, held one of the letters over a cluster of lighted candles, and steadily chanted a spell.  Letters, watery and wavering, drifted up from the paper, twisting through the air.  They were caught in the pull of his second spell, and swarmed down to a blank sheet of parchment.  They spread out across it – too dark here, too light there.  Some words were washed out entirely, especially around the places where the original letter had been folded.  But most of it was legible, and the original letter had not changed, and he, Draco, was still very much alive and unharmed.  More confidently, he picked up the second letter.

A few minutes later, he finished stamping out the flames on the carpet, and conjured a bowl of cold water to stick his burnt fingers into.  Apparently the curses on the second letter had been slightly different.  Well.  He didn't _think _any wards had gone off … and the second letter was still intact, even if his fingers weren't … hopefully the Dark Lord didn't know what he'd done …

_Oh God oh God don't let him know don't let him know please don't let him know_

He tucked the two sealed letters into his trunk, then artistically arranged his slippers over the scorched carpet.  He'd leave for the Hogwarts Express the next morning, the House Elves would come in to clean, and with any kind of luck, they'd just fix the carpet without comment.  Without telling anyone.  His fingers were red and extremely sore, but he could just wear gloves in the morning.  Professor Snape would let him have a salve for it.  The Professor wouldn't ask any questions.

He realized he was shaking, and ate a Chocolate Frog to help himself calm down.  Then he checked the locks on the door and the window, pulled the curtains around his bed, spelled them shut, pulled the sheets over his head, muttered "_Lumos," and started reading the copy he had made of the first letter._

_          My dear grandson,_

_          I hope this missive finds you in good health…_

He read it through, went back to the beginning, and read it again.  Then he read it a third time.  After the fifth perusal, he got out of bed and crept over to his bookshelves, where he took down a copy of _Names and Lines, the undisputed authority on wizarding genealogy.  He took it back under the sheets, and pored over it until the alarm beside his pillow went off._

Gray morning light filtered through his window curtains, providing him enough illumination to dress and to locate a pair of thin black gloves that would not look ridiculous with his robes.  He read the copied letter one more time, then lit a candle and burnt it to ash, ash which he pounded with a paper weight to break up and sent flying out the window with a light wind charm.  He restored _Names and Lines to its proper place on the shelf, and put _Illegal Charms_ next to it, disguised to look like _The Beater's Bible_.  _

Everything was packed.  His cloak lay on his bed, ready for travel; his trunk and broomstick stood by the door.  The House Elves were in charge of getting his owl out to the carriage.  He sat down at his desk and stared sightlessly at the wall, waiting.  After a while, he blinked.  "Bloody hell," he whispered.  "Bloody _hell.  Potter is the Dark Lord's grandson."_

_END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN_

* * *

Coming up in Chapter Sixteen: A doubtless welcome change from all the Malfoy introspection that has been going on left, right, and center.  Back to Hogwarts for the opening of a new year.  Harry is reunited with his friends.  Harry broods.  Broodingly.  

With any luck, the next chapter will take less than ten months to finish.  

Many thanks to all my reviewers – especially to Myr Halcyon.  You inspired me to go back to this and finish writing the chapter.  Thank you.  :^)  


	16. September 1st, 1995

_"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."_

_Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry._

_"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."_

Rubeus Hagrid, in _Harry Potter and the_ _Goblet of Fire_

Disclaimer: I do not own the Potterverse; I merely hitchhike through it.

Author's Notes: This story is still an AU, OotP-independent account of Harry's fifth year. As I barely have time to write new chapters, let alone rewrite old ones, I will stick to the plan I made three years ago; since I do not own a copy of OotP, I will not try to incorporate any canon information (not even Thestrals or OWL levels) into NHP.

To my immense surprise and gratification, "No Higher Praise" won the **Pass Me a Tissue Award** for Best Angst from Twisted Colours Awards a few months ago.

This chapter has taken too long (insert apologies and groveling here). In fact, I am still not satisfied with it, but I am posting it regardless. Suffice it to say that it's here now.

**NO HIGHER PRAISE:**

_"Trying not to think about it, are we?" said Malfoy softly, look­ing around at all three of them. "Trying to pretend it hasn't happened?"_

_"Get out," said Harry._

_He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during Dumbledore's speech about Cedric. He could feel a kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand under his robes._

_"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!" He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione. "Too late now. Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well - sec­ond - Diggory was the f-"_

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, in _The Goblet of Fire_

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

The day of the Sorting Feast finally dawned, cool, overcast, and horribly dull. Harry eventually found himself slumped on the damp stone steps just outside the entrance hall, waiting for the carriages to appear on the distance drive. Busy as the teachers were, they had not been too busy to thwart his final, frustrated attempt to get into the dungeon room where James was still immured.

The two long weeks since his scorched and tumultuous return to Hogwarts had been full of disappointments. The professors – and Sirius – looked glummer every day, and each time Harry inquired if they had made any progress in breaking, or even in _understanding, _the spells on James, he received a long-winded explanation that basically amounted to one simple word.

_No._

Not that Harry actually had that many chances to ask. The Hogwarts staff had all the academic preparations for the coming year to handle, in addition to the new defenses Dumbledore had ordered set up. Lupin spent his every waking moment on fruitless research, which all too often took him outside Hogwarts. Harry had an uncomfortable suspicion that Lupin was avoiding him, which hurt more than he would have expected. And even Sirius spent ridiculous amounts of time off running errands for Dumbledore, not to mention that he was far too complacent about the stupid, _stupid _delay in letting James out.

Since the staff had further compounded the problem by refusing to allow him access to the Quidditch pitch, Harry retired into the empty Gryffindor dormitory to sulk and study. Sirius and Remus had brought back his trunk and broomstick from the Dursleys', but he had managed to get out for only one short flight before Hooch chased him down on her own broom, shouting indignantly, and hustled him back inside where it was _safe_.

Everyone was far too concerned about his safety, Harry thought bitterly, and not nearly concerned enough about whether he was going to explode from sheer frustration. He had tried eleven times to bypass the obstacles before James's door, and each time he had been thwarted. His father had been back at Hogwarts, alive, for two weeks, _two whole weeks_, and Harry had not caught a glimpse of him since the first day. Danger or no danger, it just wasn't fair.

The first time, Sirius had caught him less than nine steps away from the infirmary door and hustled him back in with a half-sympathetic, half-reproachful suggestion to wait. All right, fine. He had waited three days, and no-one had accomplished anything. So he kept an eye on the Map, and tried again. This time he got nearly to the door before Flitwick shot around a corner, summoned his invisibility cloak right away from him, and gave him a high-pitched lecture on patience, caution, and consideration. The third time, Harry ended up setting off some sort of proximity alarm on the door, and an elderly gray-haired man who seemed to consider the whole matter a brilliant joke had to unstick him from the suddenly taffy-like floor. This new guard introduced himself cheerily as Vindictus Viridian, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and added with jovial camaraderie that if he caught Harry trying to further You-Know-Who's insidious plots (whatever they might be) again, he would give Harry an early introduction to the hexes the fifth-year class would be studying.

He did it, too. And no matter how far away the Map might show the staff when Harry started out toward the dungeon, one of them (all too often Viridian) would come rushing in his direction as soon as he got close to his goal. They were probably watching Dumbledore's copy of the Map, Harry finally realized, and gave up his project in disgust … for a little while.

Well, he'd have to give it up altogether now. Sirius had made it quite clear that if students spotted Harry evincing too much interest in the dungeons, someone would eventually catch on to the fact that strange matters were afoot – and if anyone found out about James's presence, there'd be a bloody mess.

Harry caught sight of the carriages a few moments before the fleet of boats hove in view across the lake. He wound his Invisibility Cloak tightly around his rumpled robes, and waited. With any luck, he could join the other Gryffindors unnoticed and avoid awkward questions as to what he was doing there already.

Who was he fooling? He snorted softly to himself as the first students came hurrying up the steps, exclaiming in disgust over the muggy weather. Of _course _there would be questions. The whole wizarding world wanted to know every little detail of Harry Potter's life. Hadn't Rita Skeeter proved that already?

Maybe he should give them something to talk about. "Oh, sure, I've been here all summer. See, the Ministry's going to have me expelled, so I'm training to be Filch's assistant caretaker…"

Or maybe "Professor Trelawney foresaw a terrible death for me if I didn't manage to closely befriend the Giant Squib before classes start …"

"Well, don't you know, Madame Pince and I have fallen violently in love and we thought Hagrid's empty hut the perfect place for our honeymoon…"

Harry grinned under his cloak and sidled carefully into the stream of hurrying, chattering students, nearly treading on Dennis Creevey's toes.

He maneuvered his way up behind his friends, and heard Hermione whispering in an angry, strained voice, "…know you're worried about Harry, but I can't believe you did that, right in front of the first-years, too!"

"The filthy little shite had it coming," Ron snarled, and when he turned his head Harry glimpsed a spreading purple bruise on his jaw. "You know he did!"

"But there are _rules_, Ron, and I'm a Prefect now –"

"Well, term hadn't started yet, so you couldn't take points!" Ron said triumphantly.

"Oh, honestly! Of all the !" Hermione turned to glare up at Ron, stopping so abruptly that Harry walked right into her. She gave a strangled squeal of surprise and whipped around, already opening her mouth for a spell.

"Don't!" Harry whispered frantically. "It's me, Harry! Don't make a scene, _please_."

"_Harry_?" Hermione lowered her wand, relief lighting up her face like a spell.

Ron shuffled closer, peering vaguely over Harry's invisible right shoulder. "All right, mate? Why weren't you on the train? Are you wearing the – you know?"

"Just a second," Harry muttered. He inched to the side so that Ron and Hermione stood between him and the oblivious students, then tugged the Cloak hastily off.

Ron broke into a grin as he appeared. "Ha! I knew it."

Harry grinned back at him, feeling a curious lightening of his spirits. He eyed the shining badge pinned on Hermione's robe, and gave her a broad smile. "That's great, Hermione – congratulations."

She blushed a little, and gave the badge a fond glance, while Ron snorted. "Oh, like it's any surprise."

"You're not actually planning to take any points off Gryffindor, right?" Harry said hopefully, and affected not to notice Hermione's sudden indignation. "Say, who's the other prefect?"

Ron blinked. "Isn't it you, then?"

"Er, no." Taken aback, Harry glanced between his friends' surprised faces. "At least, I don't think so. Why?"

"Oh, we just thought it … might be, you know," Hermione said quickly. "Your marks really aren't so bad, except in Potions, you know. But if you haven't heard, of course you aren't. My badge came in my Hogwarts letter."

Harry shrugged, suppressing an odd pang. He had completely forgotten about the prefects … Would his dad be disappointed he hadn't gotten the badge? "It must be Dean, then. Er, how was the train ride?"

The last students trailed by, giving them curious looks, and the three Gryffindors hurried after them.

"We spent most of it looking for you," Hermione said reproachfully. "We thought you would be there. You haven't written for nearly three weeks, you know."

Harry affected interest in the crooked hat of a passing Hufflepuff. He had started to write more than once, but without mentioning James's return, what was there to say? And he couldn't bring himself to talk about that just yet. Maybe in a few days, once he'd thought of the right way to say it. He didn't think he could bear Hermione's flood of sympathetic advice or Ron's awkward pity. "Well, it's … it's all been pretty dull, really," he said vaguely. "I, er, I've been here for a bit. Spent some time in the library. Nothing to write about, really." He lowered his voice. "Only I've seen Snuffles. He's well."

"Oh, Harry, that's wonderful!" Hermione squeezed his arm excitedly. "But of course you were right not to write that. People can tamper with owl post quite easily, you know."

Ron did not appear to find the explanation satisfactory. "You could at least have met us at Diagon Alley," he complained. "They had a whole display on Firebolts up! And the twins were selling some of their prank sweets on the street until Mum caught on and made them stop. They were spending loads of money on ingredients and such," he added, sounding grudgingly impressed. "They even got me some new dress robes, much spiffier than the ones Mum found."

They slid onto the bench at Gryffindor's table, and Harry managed a weak smile at Ron's remark. "That's great," he said honestly. "I wish I could have been there, but it wasn't as if the Dursleys were going to drive me up to London." He pulled a face, and added with feeling, "The gits."

"Tought luck," Ron sympathized, then began to reminisce wistfully about the long-lost Ford Anglia.

Harry listened, grateful that his friends were willing to pretend, at least for a few hours, that nothing had really changed since the previous year. While Ron launched into an account of his dad's unsuccessful attempt to replace the vehicle, Harry let his gaze wander down the Gryffindor table. It seemed that an awful lot of his classmates were carefully looking away from him. Against his will, he glanced over at the Ravenclaw table, but one glimpse of Cho's bowed head sent his eyes darting back to Ron and Hermione.

" … and Mum was dead wrong. It would've been just fine if we'd added a few charms to make the things that make the car stop work right. We're wizards anyway, what do we need _seatbelts _for?"

"It's against the law for minors to ride without seatbelts –"

"Not for _wizarding_ people!"

"All right, Harry?"

Harry looked up hastily, and found Neville Longbottom smiling at him from Hermione's other side. "Hi, Neville," he said in relief, sure that the round-faced boy would not ask any awkward questions. "Er, did you have a good summer?"

Neville's cheeks reddened slightly. "Well, yes –"

"Hey!" Ron's pointing finger nearly jabbed Harry's nose. "Hey, _Neville's _the other prefect!" He looked far too astonished for good manners, and Neville fiddled nervously with the badge.

"Er, yes. At least, I guess so." He glanced at Harry anxiously.

Harry reached around Hermione – who was still searching for words – to thump Neville encouragingly on the shoulder. "Way to go, Neville!" he said. "Ha, bet Malfoy didn't see _that _coming." He looked across at the Slytherin table, and located Malfoy at once; the glint of metal on his robes suggested that he, too, had a prefect badge. Harry found himself smirking at the thought that _Neville Longbottom_, of all people, could now take points from Malfoy's house. Then he realized that Malfoy was staring at him, and as he met the Slytherin's eyes, fury welled up in him. He could hear Malfoy's snide voice ringing inside his head, _Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods_, and he wanted to choke it into silence.

"Psst, Harry!" Hermione's sharp elbow dug into his ribs. "Who's that sitting by Professor Flitwick?"

Harry blinked, disoriented, and quickly looked across to the staff table. "That's Viridian, the new DaDA teacher. Yes," he added, hastily forestalling her next remark, "the one who wrote _Curses and Countercurses _and all that lot."

Hermione frowned. "I think I read that he was considered a _lightweight _in his field, more interested in curses and dueling than in solid theory." She eyed Viridian critically. "But I suppose he can't be worse than Lockhart."

"Changed your tune on dear old Gilderoy since second year, haven't you?" Ron teased.

"Here come the first-years," Neville interjected quickly. "They're all wet and shivering. Say, did we look that scared when it was us down there?"

The Sorting Hat sang its song, the first years scurried to their places, and Headmaster Dumbledore introduced Viridian to the assembled students. Then, in a clear, challenging voice, he reminded the whole school that Voldemort had returned.

Harry hunched his shoulders, staring fixedly at his empty plate. He could feel hundreds of eyes resting on him, and he tried to shut his ears to the rest of Dumbledore's statement. Unity, strength, courage, wisdom to know the truth and do what was right ... Harry thought desperately about Quidditch, and at last Dumbledore's voice fell silent, to be replaced by the agitated murmuring of the students. When Harry risked a quick, nervous glance around the Hall, he was struck for the first time by the fact that many seats were empty which had not been the previous year.

In a grim effort to regain the previous casual mood, Harry shoveled potatoes into his mouth and asked with forced cheerfulness, "What did you two do this summer, aside from Diagon Alley?"

His friends glanced at each other quickly, and Ron gave an unconvincing grin. "It was a _great _summer – the Cannons won a game! Didn't you hear about it? I've got a new poster –"

Ron rattled on at a great rate about gnomes and explosions in the twins' bedroom, and began to rant about the prattishness of Percy before falling into confusion and hastily shoving a bite of roast into his mouth. Hermione instantly picked up the thread of conversation, describing her preliminary studies for the OWLs and an absolutely _fascinating _book on Animagi which she had found in Diagon Alley. "Just think what an interesting Transfiguration project that would be!" she enthused. "They give credit for Animagus transformations in the OWLs and NEWTs both, you know, and Professor McGonagall is qualified to tutor students through the process, and really quite a few people not much older than us have done it before! Of course studying for the OWLs themselves is ever so much more important, but I'm sure I'll have time to at least start on this, and –"

_They're hiding something_, Harry thought in dismay. Was it something that had happened on the train, or were they really angry at him for not writing – or was it something worse? Did they blame him for what had happened at the Tournament? Appetite gone, he crumbled a roll in his fingers and let the clamor in the hall wash over him.

While Hermione and Neville led the over-excited first years away, Harry trudged beside Ron up to their dormitory, half-listening to Seamus's account of his trip to the Orkneys, on which he had apparently managed to fall into the water and nearly be eaten by various water-monsters no less than three times. They passed the twins, who looked as if they were getting over some sort of nasty flu but still waved cheerily – and Ginny, who was staring at the floor so intently that she did not even notice Harry's greeting.

"Is something up with your family, Ron?" Harry asked curiously.

Ron gave a violent start. "No! Er, no, why? I mean, what makes you think that?"

Harry scowled at him. "Oh, come on, Ron! The twins and Ginny all look like they've just gotten over being petrified, and you don't look all that fine either, not to mention that you've got that bruise on your face –"

"Oh, this? That was on the train," Ron said quickly. "And me and Ginny and the twins had, er, a cold, you see – we were out in the rain playing Quidditch and … well, you know, we all spent loads of time practicing flying 'cause Gin and I want to try to get on the team." He shifted his weight nervously. "Think I could make Keeper?"

Harry shrugged angrily and turned away. Ron said nothing else.

Although Harry lay awake in the darkness for nearly an hour, until he drifted off he could hear Ron shifting restlessly in his own bed.

The next day started poorly when Harry and Ron both overslept, and got worse when they remembered that they had Double Potions with the Slytherins that afternoon. Ron seemed to be sulking over Harry's snub the previous night, but Harry was still certain that _something _was wrong. Briefly, it occurred to him that being upset with Ron for hiding something involving family was hypocritical in the highest degree, but he shoved the thought away before it could fully form. Instead, he watched the Weasley twins out of the corner of his eye during the meal, and found it highly suspicious that no-one in their immediate vicinity was changing colour, sprouting feathers, or otherwise falling victim to their absent high spirits.

At lunch, Harry overheard two fourth-years whispering that he had spent the summer in St. Mungo's, being treated for his mental health. He went to Potions in a foul temper, which deepened when Snape – who had sweeping about the castle in an even blacker mood than usual for the past few days – chose to glare pointedly at Harry and Ron while remarking that he expected _many _of his students to fail their OWLs. If they did so, his tone implied, he would consider it a good riddance.

Harry began brewing with a firm determination to keep his head down and avoid trouble (he had quite enough problems without losing points or annoying Snape further), but apparently fate had other plans. Just as he brought his potion to the perfect shade of slate grey – and just when Ron was right at the other end of the classroom collecting ginger roots for the final step – he turned his head away for fewer than five seconds, and something fizzed into the mixture, bubbled, and exploded.

The potion boiled up in a mass of spitting foam higher than Harry's head, then slopped gracelessly to the side and spread out in a colorless flood across the floor of the classroom. Harry blinked in shock.

"Five points from Gryffindor for mindless incompetence, Potter," hissed Snape, inevitably looming up behind him. "And a detention tonight, I think … with Filch." When Harry made no answer, Snape added malevolently, "Once again, Potter, you surprise us all. Somehow, you have managed to wring a messy disaster from a simple brew that even _Longbottom _has merely rendered ineffective." He gave the blue liquid in Neville's cauldron a hard stare, then stalked away to reduce Lavender and Parvati to shame-faced confusion.

Ron slowly set the ginger roots down on a dry corner of the desk. "Guess we won't be needing these then, huh?"

Harry sank into his seat and glared across the classroom. He was sure, absolutely sure, that this was somehow Malfoy's fault – Malfoy, who was carefully stirring his own cauldron without so much as a smirk on his face. That _proved _he was guilty. If Harry had ruined the potion himself, Malfoy would be dancing with glee, if not openly mocking.

Ron looked peaked and exhausted after class. He tumbled down on his bed and fell asleep the moment dinner was over, and didn't stir even when Harry loudly announced that he was off for his detention.

He made a detour by the room Sirius had last been staying in, but although he knocked for a good five minutes and called _Snuffles, Snuffles_ through the door, no-one answered. Sirius must _still _be off on the errand Dumbledore had sent him on four days before.

Gloom settled around Harry like a black pall. He scowled at every portrait or ghost he passed on his long trek down to meet Filch, and the caretaker's sullen face only brought to mind the old saw _Misery loves company_. With many a snarl, Filch deposited Harry in the Potions classroom with a bucket of water and vinegar, to scrub up the dried gunk of his own spilled potion. Afterward, there were encrusted cauldrons to clean; evidently Snape had left Filch with a long list of tasks for Harry to do. But finally, _finally_, Filch took the bucket and sent Harry off with a growled warning that just because he'd been allowed to lounge around the castle in August, he'd better not even _dream _of special treatment from the staff.

Flexing his sore fingers, Harry trudged through the dungeon corridor, thinking only of soft pillows and quiet sleep. He was in no mood to be disturbed, so when Draco Malfoy stepped suddenly out from behind a suit of armor, Harry went instantly for his wand.

"_Jumpy_, Potter," drawled Malfoy scornfully, but he eyed the wand warily. "Did you enjoy your detention?"

"It was great," said Harry through gritted teeth, "right until this slimy little ferret started yapping at me." The longer he looked at Malfoy, the angrier he felt, and his voice was hot with rage when he added, "_You _did something to my potion, didn't you? You threw something in it, or –"

"Not me." Malfoy dredged up a superior smile. "No, you managed to ruin that _simple brew _all by yourself, you – er." He halted in sudden strange confusion and cleared his throat. "Ah, look, Potter, I didn't come here to have a spat. I just need to talk to you, all right?"

"And I need to _not _talk to you," Harry spat, "so get out of my way."

Malfoy caught Harry's right arm as he started to shoulder past. "No, wait a minute, I –"

A dozen different frustrations merged together into one sudden loss of temper, and as Harry wrenched free, he struck Malfoy right in the middle of his pointed face. The contact sent a jolt of pain through Harry's fist, but was still astonishingly satisfying.

The Slytherin reeled back, clutching at his nose, and fell against the wall. He stared up at Harry, eyes watering, and blood began to trickle out through his fingers. "My God, Potter, are you some kind of _lunatic_?" he demanded in a choked voice.

Lunatic? Well, the _Daily Prophet _certainly thought so. Harry tightened his fingers around his wand until the slender stick bent as if it would crack. "You'd better get out of here, Malfoy," he hissed, "before I get angry."

Malfoy started to take his hand away, but a fresh spurt of blood down his chin made him hastily clamp it back. "I didn't even do anything!" he protested edgily. "I just wanted to talk to –"

"What, thought of some other snide remark you can make about C – about the Tournament?" Harry demanded furiously. "Well, guess what, Malfoy, I don't think you're funny! The only ones who ever laugh at the stupid things you say are Crabbe and Goyle, and everybody knows you pay them to do it, because even _they _aren't dumb enough to want to be around you otherwise, and since they're not here now, I guess they've finally got fed up with you, right?" He wanted to hex Malfoy, or to throw another punch into that pointy, pale, bloody face, but something held him back. Instead, he gave Malfoy his best Snape-imitation sneer. "Better go find yourself some new bodyguards, Malfoy, because it's pretty obvious you need them."

Malfoy's face – what was visible of it – went an angry pink. "Just because you have to pay _your _friends doesn't mean everyone else does, Potter," he said snidely. "You've no room to talk anyway, yours aren't here either. And I could have stopped you from hitting me perfectly well if I –" He stopped abruptly, and the pink subsided, leaving him even paler than before. If Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought the expression in Malfoy's eyes was fear.

Harry leapt into the silence. "Then you'd better get ready to stop me, because if I can still see you in ten seconds, you're going to get worse than a bloody nose!"

Fumbling with his robes, Malfoy staggered up. "Listen, Potter, I –"

Harry's wandtip leapt up, almost without his conscious command. "_Ser –_"

Malfoy's hand jerked out from inside his sleeve. There was something in it. Harry leapt backward, and changed his spell in mid syllable. "_Expelliarmus!_"

The thing shot into Harry's hand, and Malfoy's head and arm snapped back against the wall as if he had been struck by a giant fist. He gave a winded gasp, and collapsed back into a sitting position, wheezing frantically for breath.

Harry ignored him. Malfoy hadn't been brandishing a wand; he'd been brandishing a letter. A letter with Harry's name written on the front in a curving script at once unknown and strangely familiar. He turned it over, his fingers sliding across the smooth parchment and the green ink – and there, on the back, was a black seal with the faintest suggestion of an _S_-curve imprinted on it. When Harry brushed his fingertip across it, the seal sparked faintly under his touch and suddenly came loose.

Malfoy had caught his breath. He was pulling himself back to his feet, watching Harry warily over his bloody fingers. Leveling his wand again, Harry snapped, "Stay right there!"

Malfoy froze. "Make up your bloody mind, Potter," he muttered. "A minute ago you were telling me to get out."

"That was before you started waving around a letter with my name on it." Holding the envelope shut, he shook it at Malfoy. "What is this? What's it supposed to do, kill me?"

"It has your name on it?" Malfoy looked bewildered. "No, it's blank, it – oh." He swallowed. "It's – uh – it's for you. I was going to give it to you. That's why I –" He cut off with a squeak as sparks shot from Harry's wand, flaring dangerously near his face.

"_What is it_?" Harry demanded. The sparks had been unintentional, but if Malfoy was scared, so much the better.

"It's …" Malfoy hesitated. "Look, Potter, I don't know. I didn't even know there was writing on it, it's spelled so only you can open it and - there's another. Let me get it out of my pocket without trying to hex me, and maybe it'll explain things."

"Hand it over, then." Harry waited, suspiciously, while Malfoy extracted another letter, holding it by one corner as if he thought it might bite him. He snatched it, and glanced quickly at the front. It was blank. "Where did you get these?" he growled. "Are they cursed? Who are they from?"

"I don't know," Malfoy repeated obstinately. "But I wouldn't go running off to Dumbledore with them if I were you, because –"

Harry missed the rest of Malfoy's words. He remembered now why the writing was familiar; he had last seen it snaking across the blank pages of Tom Riddle's diary. Harry's hands began to shake.

Hurriedly shoving the letters inside his robes, he rounded on Malfoy and whispered in a dangerous, no-quite-level voice, "Shut up and sod off. And if you – if you ever _dare _– if you –"

Malfoy had gone pasty white behind his mask of blood. He moved his mouth mutely, gulped, and managed only a strangled, "Right, Potter," before Harry turned unceremoniously away and dashed up the corridor.

Halfway to Gryffindor Tower, he made an abrupt right and plunged into an empty classroom lit brightly by the waning moon. With fingers that had gone cold and stiff, he unfolded the parchment and held it in the light.

_My dear grandson_ …

_**END OF CHAPTER SIXTEEN**_

Coming up in Chapter Seventeen: the full text of Voldemort's letter to Harry and Harry's reaction thereto.

Many thanks to the reviewers who kept reminding me to get back to work.


End file.
